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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
Drt  Katherine  Schwar zenbach 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


EDGAR     ALLAN     P  0  E 


WITH  ORIGINAL  MEMOIR 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


OF 


EDGAR     ALLAN     POE 


WITH  ORIGINAL  MEMOIR. 


ILLUSTRATED   BY  P.   R.    PICKERSGILL,   R.A. 

JOHX  TENNIEL,   BIRKET  FOSTER,  FELIX  BARLEY,  JASPER  CROPSEY, 
P.   DUGGAX,   PERCIVAL  SKELTOST,   AND   A.   M.   MADOT. 


NEW  YOEK: 
J.  S.  REDFIELD,  34,  BEEKMAN  STREET. 


MDCCCLVIII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congre**,  in  tlie  year  JV,7.  i,y 

J.  S.  KEDFIEL1), 

In  the  CU-rkV  OffiiH-  of  the  District  Court  c.i  tin-  Scutlu-in  DiMi 
New  Vork. 


PBEEACE. 


THESE  trifles  are  collected  and  republished  chiefly  with  a  view 
to  their  redemption  from  the  many  improvements  to  which  they 
have  been  subjected  while  going  at  random  "  the  rounds  of  the 
press."  I  am  naturally  anxious  that  what  I  have  written  should 
circulate  as  I  wrote  it,  if  it  circulate  at  all.  In  defence  of  my 
own  taste,  nevertheless,  it  is  incumbent  upon  me  to  say  that  I 
think  nothing  in  this  volume  of  much  value  to  the  public,  or 
very  creditable  to  myself.  Events  not  to  be  controlled  have 
prevented  me  from  making,  at  any  time,  any  serious  effort  in 
what,  under  happier  circumstances,  would  have  been  the  field 
of  my  choice.  With  me  poetry  has  been  not  a  purpose,  but  a 
passion;  and  the  passions  should  be  held  in  reverence;  they 
must  not — they  cannot  at  will  be  excited,  with  an  eye  to  the 
paltry  compensations,  or  the  more  paltry  commendations  of 
mankind. 

E.  A.  P. 


CONTENTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  :— 

PACE 

THE  EATEN 1 

LENORE   9 

A  VALENTINE 12 

THE  COLISEUM 13 

To 15 

To  HELEN 17 

AN  ENIGMA 22 

ULALUME 23 

To 28 

To  MY  MOTHER 29 

THE  BELLS 30 

THE  CONQUEROR  WORM 39 

ANNABEL  LEE 42 

THE  VALLEY  OF  UNREST 46 

ISRAFEL 48 

SILENCE • 52 

To  ZANTE 53 

To  F s  S.  0—   — D 55 

BRIDAL  BALLAD 56 

THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 58 

EULALIE   .  62 


CONTENTS. 

.-.      | 

I-ACIJ: 

ToF-  •  C4 

To  ONE  IN  PARADISE   ....  65 

DREAM-LAND ^ 

HYMN 71 

THE  SLEEPER 72 

.     FOR  ANNIE 76 

ELDORADO 82 

A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM 85 

THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA 87 

SCENES  PROM  "  POLITIAN  ; "  AN  UNPUBLISHED  DRAMA  .  91 

POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH  :— 

AL  AARAAF 149 

SONNET— To  SCIENCE 173 

To  THE  RIVER  —       - !74 

TAMERLANE 176 

To 192 

A  DREAM 194 

ROMANCE 195 

FAIRY-LAND 197 

THE  LAKE.— To—  201 

SONG 203 

To  M.  L.  S 204 

To  HELEN    .  205 


NOTES  TO  AL  AARAAF 207 

THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE 217 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


ENGRAVER.  PAG! 


PORTRAIT  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  DAGUERREOTYPE  .  .  /.  Cooper  .  .  xvii 


THE  RAVEN. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before. 

JOHN  TEXXIEL  .  .  .  /.  Cooper   .  .       ] 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 

JOHN  TENMEL  .  .  .  J.  Cooper  .  .       3 

"  Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  tl-ee— by  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore  !" 

JOHX  TENXITL  .  .  .  J.  Cooper   .  .       G 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door. 

JOHN  TENNIEL  .  .  .  /.  Cooper  .  .      8 


LENORE. 

The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair,  but  not  within  her  eyes — 
The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair — the  death  upon  her  eyes. 

F.  R.  PICKERSGILL  .  W.  J.  Lititon.      U 

The  sweet  Lenore  hath  "  gone  before,"  with  Hope,  that  flew  beside, 
Leaving  thee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that  should  have  been  thy  bride. 

FELIX  DARLEY  .  .  .  J.  Cooper  .  .     11 
•  ix  b 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 
THE  COLISEUM. 

ARTIST.  ENGRAVER.  PAGE 

But  stay  !  these  walls — these  ivy-clad  arcades — 

These  mouldering  plinths — these  sad  and  blackened  shafts. 

JASPER  CROPSEY  .  .  W.  J.  Lint  on. .    13 

TO  HELEN. 

It  was  a  July  midnight ;  and  from  out 
A  fnll-orbed  moon,    ...... 

There  fell  a  silvery-silken  veil  of  light.  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  W.  T.  Green .    1? 

Clad  all  in  white,  upon  a  violet  bank 

I  saw  thee  half  reclining.  F.  R.  PICKERSGTLL  .  W.  J.  Union.    1.9 

And  thou,  a  ghost,  amid  the  entombing  trees 

Didst  glide  away.  BTRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  /.  Cooper  .  .    21 

ULALUME. 

It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir.  JASPER  CROPSEY  .  .  W.  J.  Linfon.    23 

That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here — 

On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year.  F.  Jl.  PICKERSGLLL  .  W.  J.  Linfon.    27 


THE  BELLS. 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells- 
Silver  bells !  FELIX  DARLEY  .  .  .  J.  Cooper  .  .    30 

Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 

How  they  ring  out  their  delight !  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  E.  Emtis   .  .    32 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire.  FELIX  DARLEY  .  .  .  J.  Cooper  .  .    34- 

In  the  silence  of  the  night, 

How  we  shiver  with  affright.  F.  E.  PICKERS  RILL  .   W.  J.  Utiton.     36 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 
ANNABEL  LEE. 

AET1ST.  t-NGRAVER.  PAGE 

/  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea.  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  J.  Cooper  .  .    42 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabal  Lee.  BIRKET  FOSTEH  .  .  .  J.  Cooper  .  .    44 

ISRAFEL. 

In  heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 
"  Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute."  P.  DUGGAX W.  J.  Linton.     48 

TO  ZANTE. 

Fair  isle,  that  from  the  fairest  of  all  flowers, 
Thy  gentlest  of  all  gentle  names  dost  take !  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  E.  Evans  .  .    53 

THE  HAUNTED  PALACE. 

Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace — 
Radiant  palace — reared  its  head.  A.  M.  MADOT  .  .  .  .  E.  Evans   .  .    68 

EULALIE. 

Till  the  fair  and  gentle  Eulalie  became  my  blusliing  bride — 
Till  the  yellow-haired  young  Eulalie  became  my  smiling  bride. 

F.  R.  PICKERSGILL  .  W.  J.  Linton.    62 


TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE. 

Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 
To  the  sands  upon  the  shore.  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  E.  Evans   .  .    65 


DREAM-LAND. 

Shrouded  forms  that  start  and  sigh 

As  they  pass  the  wanderer  by.  F.  R.  PICKERSGILL  .  W.  J.  Linton.    69 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 
THE  SLEEPER. 

ARTIST.  ENGRAVER.  PAGE 

At  midnight,  in  the  month  of  Jimr, 

I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon.  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  E.  Evans    .  .     72 

FOR  ANNIE. 

And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 
To  keep  me  from  harm.  F.  R.  PICKERSGILL  .  W.  J.  Lin/on.    78 

ELDORADO. 

And,  as  his  strength 
Failed  him  at  length, 
He  met  a  pilgrim  shadow.  F.  R.  PICKERSGILL  .  W.  J.  Linton.    83 

A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM. 

I  stand  amid  the  roar 

Of  a  surf-tormented  shore.  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  J.  Cooper  .  .    85 

THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA. 

Lo  !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone.  JASPER  CROPSEY  .  .  W.  J.  Linton.    87 

The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow — 

The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low.  JASPER  CROPSEY  .  .  W.  J.  Linton.    89 

SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

-# 

View  of  Rome.  PERCIVAL  SKELTON.  /.  Cooper  .  .    93 

Heard  I  aright  ? 
I  speak  to  him— he  speaks  of  Lalage !  F.  R.  PCCKERSGILL  .  Hammond  .  .    97 

A  garden.  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  J.  Cooper  .  .  102 

xii 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


ARTIST.  ENGRAVER.  PAGE 

Think  of  eternal  things  ; 
Give  up  thy  soul  to  penitence,  and  pray !  F.  R.  PICKERSGILL  .  E.  Evans   .  .  110 

Politian,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To  see  thee  thus.  A.  M.  MADOT  .  .  .  .  E.  Evans   .  .  114 

Listen  now — listen  ! — the  faintest  sound, 
And  yet  the  sweetest  that  ear  ever  heard  t 
A  lady's  voice! — and  sorrow  in  the  tone!  A.  M.  MADOT  .  .  .  .  H.  Harral .  .  120 

Weep  not !  oh,  sob  not  thus  ! — thy  bitter  tears 

Will  madden  me.    Oh,  mourn  not,  Lalage !  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  J.  Cooper  .  .  127 

Hist !  hush !  within  the  gloom 
Of  yonder  trees  methought  a  figure  passed.  F.  R.  PICKERSGILL  .  E.  Evans   .  .  132 

The  suburbs  of  Rome.  PERCIVAL  SKELTOX.  J.  Cooper  .  .  136 


AL  AARAAF. 

O  !  nothing  earthly  save  the  thrill 

Of  melody  in  woodland  rill.  BIRKET  FOSTER    .  .  /.  Cooper  .  .  14-9 

Of  her  who  loved  a  mortal — and  so  died.  F.  R.  PICKERSGILL  .  W.  J.  Linton.  152 

As  »prang  that  yellow  star  from  downy  hours, 

Up  rose  the  maiden  from  her  shrine  of  flowers.  A.  M.  MADOT  .  .  .  .  W.  Thomas  .  157 

High  on  a  mountain  of  enamelled  head — 

arose  a  pile 

Of  gorgeous  columns.  PERCIVAL  SKELTON.  /.  Whymper .  159 

On  its  margin  is  sleeping 
Full  many  a  maid.  F.  R.  PICKERSGILL  .  W.  J.  Linton.  166 

Was  a  proud  temple  called  the  Parthenon.  PERCIYAL  SKELTON.  /.  Cooper  .  .  170 


TO  THE  RIVER. 

For  in  his  heart,  as  in  thy  stream, 

Her  image  deeply  lies.  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  E.  Evans   .  .  174 

xiii 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 
TAMERLANE. 

ARTIST.  ENGRAVER.  PAGE 

We  grew  in  age — and  love — together — 
'  Roaming  the  forest,  and  the  wild.  A.  M.  MADOT  .  .  .  .  W.  J.  Linton.  181 

We  walked  together  on  the  crown 

Of  a  high  mountain.  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  /.  Cooper  .  .  185 

A  voice  came  from  the  threshold  stone 

Of  one  whom  I  had  earlier  known.  A.  M.  MADOT  .  ,      .  W.  J.  Linton.  189 


TO 


The  bowers  whereat,  in  dreams,  I  see 
The  wantonest  singing  birds.  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  E.  Evans  .  .  192 


FAIRY-LAND. 

Dim  vales — and  shadowy  floods — 

And  cloudy-looking  woods.  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  /.  Cooper  .  .  198 


THE  LAKE. 

A  wild  lake,  with  black  rock  bound, 

And  the  tall  pines  that  towered  around.  BIRKET  FOSTER  .  .  .  /.  Cooper  .  .  201 


The  Head  and  Tail-pieces  and  Initial  Letters.  W.  HARRY  ROGERS  .  E.  Evans. 


Under  the  Superintendence  of  JOSEPH  CUNDALL. 


MEMOIR  OP  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


IT  would  be  well  for  all  poets  if  nothing  more  were  known 
of  their  lives  than  what  they  themselves  infuse  into  their  poetry. 
Too  close  a  knowledge  of  the  weaknesses  and  errors  of  the  in- 
spired children  of  Parnassus,  cannot  but  impair,  in  some  degree, 
the  delicate  aroma  of  their  songs.  The  inner  life  of  the  poet,  the 
secrets  of  his  inspiration,  the  mysterious  processes  by  which  his 
pearls  of  thought  are  produced,  can  never  be  made  known,  and  the 
accidents  of  his  daily  life  have  but  little  more  interest  than  those 
which  fall  to  common  men.  Under  all  circumstances  the  poet  is 


MEMOIR. 

a  mystery,  and  the  utterances  of  his  fancy  are  but  the  drapery 
of  the  veiled  statue  which  still  leaves  the  figure  itself  unknown. 
A  dissection  of  the  song-bird  gives  us  no  insight  into  the  secret 
of  his  melodious  notes.  Some  of  the  great  modern  poets  have 
had  their  whole  lives  exposed  with  minute  accuracy ;  but  in  what 
are  we  the  wiser  for  the  knowledge  we  have  obtained  of  them? 
We  only  know  they  lived  and  suffered  like  other  men,  and  their 
inspirations  are  still  a  cause  of  wonder  and  delight.  The  subtle 
secret  of  their  power  is  still  hidden  from  our  search ;  and  though 
we  know  more  of  the  daily  habits  of  the  men,  we  know  no  more 
of  the  hidden  power  of  the  poet.  But  there  is  still  a  yearning 
to  know  how  the  men  lived  whose  genius  has  charmed  and  in- 
structed us,  and  a  vague  feeling  exists,  that  in  probing  the  lives 
of  poets  we  may  learn  something  of  the  art  by  which  they 
produced  their  works.  But  it  is  like  the  useless  labour  of 
Eeynolds,  who  scraped  a  painting  by  Titian  to  learn  the  secret 
of  his  colouring. 

Of  all  the  poets  whose  lives  have  been  a  puzzle  and  a  mystery 
to  the  world,  there  is  no  one  more  difficult  to  be  understood  than 
Edgar  Allan  Poe.  It  is  impossible  to  carry  in  the  mind  a  double 
idea  of  a  man,  and  to  believe  him  to  be  both  a  saint  and  a  fiend ; 
yet  such  is  the  embarrassment  felt  by  those  who  have  first  read  the 
poems  of  this  strange  being,  and  then  read  any  of  the  biographies 
of  him  which  pretend  to  anything  like  an  accurate  account  of  his 
life.  Like  his  own  Raven,  he  is,  to  his  readers,  "bird  or  fiend," 


MKMOIK. 

they  know  not  which.  But  a  close  study  of  his  works  will  reveal 
the  fact,  which  may  serve  in  some  degree  to  remove  this  embarrass- 
ment, that  there  is  nowhere  discoverable  in  them  a  consciousness 
of  moral  responsibility.  They  are  full  of  the  subtleties  of  passion,  of 
grief,  despair,  and  longing,  but  they  contain  nothing  that  indicates 
a  sense  of  moral  rectitude.  They  are  the  productions  of  one 
whose  religion  was  a  worship  of  the  Beautiful,  and  who  knew 
no  beauty  but  that  which  was  purely  sensuous.  There  were  but 
two  kinds  of  beauty  for  him,  and  they  were  Form  and  Colour. 
He  revelled  in  an  ideal  world  of  perfect  shows,  and  was  made 
wretched  by  any  imperfections  of  art.  The  Leonore  whose  loss 
he  deplored  was  a  being  fair  to  the  eye,  a  beautiful  creature,  like 
Undine,  without  a  soul.  With  this  key  to  the  character  of  the 
poet,  there  is  no  difficulty  in  fully  comprehending  the  strange 
inconsistencies,  the  basenesses  and  nobleness  which  his  wayward 
life  exhibited. 

Some  of  the  biographers  of  Poe  have  been  harshly  judged  for 
the  view  given  of  his  character,  and  it  has  naturally  been  supposed 
that  private  pique  lias  led  to  the  exaggeration  of  his  personal 
defects.  But  such  imputations  are  unjust;  a  truthful  delineation 
of  his  career  would  give  a  darker  hue  to  his  character  than  it  has 
received  from  any  of  his  biographers.  In  fact,  he  has  been  more 
fortunate  than  most  poets  in  his  historians.  Lowell  and  Willis 
have  sketched  him  with  gentleness  and  a  reverent  feeling  for  his 
genius;  and  Griswold,  his  literary  executor,  in  his  fuller  biography, 


MEMOIR. 

has  generously  suppressed  much  that  he  might  have  given.  This 
is  neither  the  proper  time  nor  place  to  write  a  full  history  of  this 
unhappy  genius;  those  who  scan  his  marvellous  poems  closely, 
may  find  therein  the  man,  for  it  is  impossible  for  the  true  poet 
to  veil  himself  from  his  readers.  What  he  writes  he  is. 

The  waywardness  of  Poe  was  an  inheritance  ;  though  descended 
from  a  family  of  great  respectability,  his  immediate  parents  were 
dissolute  in  their  morals,  and  members  of  a  profession  which 
almost  always  begets  irregularity  of  habits.  The  paternal  grand- 
father of  the  poet  was  a  distinguished  officer  in  the  Maryland 
line  during  the  war  of  the  Revolution,  and  his  great  grandfather, 
John  Poe,  married  a  daughter  of  Admiral  Me  Bride,  of  the  British 
Navy.  His  father,  the  fourth  son  of  the  Revolutionary  officer, 
was  a  native  of  Maryland,  and  studied  for  the  bar ;  but  becoming 
enamoured  of  a  beautiful  actress  named  Elizabeth  Arnold,  he 
abandoned  the  law  and  adopted  the  stage  as  a  profession.  They 
lived  together  six  or  seven  years,  wandering  from  theatre  to  theatre, 
when  they  both  died  within  a  very  short  time  of  each  other,  in 
Richmond,  Virginia,  leaving  three  children  in  utter  destitution. 
Edgar,  the  second  child,  who  was  born  in  Baltimore  in  January 
1811,  was  a  remarkably  bright  and  beautiful  boy ;  and  he  attracted 
the  attention  of  a  wealthy  merchant  in  Richmond,  who  had  known 
his  parents,  and  who  had  no  children  of  his  own.  Mr.  Allan 
adopted  the  little  orphan,  and  he  was  afterwards  called  Edgar 
Allan.  The  precocious  child  was  petted  by  his  adopted  parents,  who 


MEMOIR. 

took  pride  in  his  forwardness  and  beauty ;  he  was  sent  to  the  best 
schools,  and  was  regarded  as  the  heir  to  their  property.  In  1816 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allan  made  a  journey  to  Europe,  and  Edgar  accom- 
panied them.  He  was  placed  at  the  school  of  the  Eev.  Dr.  Bransby, 
at  Stoke  Newington,  near  London,  where  he  remained  some  four 
or  five  years  ;  but  all  that  we  know  of  him  during  this  period  of 
his  life,  is  what  he  has  himself  told  us  in  the  tale  entitled 
"  William  Wilson,"  wherein  he  describes  with  great  minute- 
ness his  recollections  of  his  school-days  in  England,  and  gives  a 
characteristic  picture  of  the  school-house  and  its  surroundings. 

On  his  return  to  the  United  States,  in  the  year  1822,  he  was 
placed  for  a  few  months  at  an  academy  at  Richmond,  and  then 
was  transferred  to  the  University  of  Virginia,  at  Charlottesville. 
The  students  at  Charlottesville  were  noted,  at  that  time,  for  their 
reckless  and  dissolute  manner  of  life,  and  young  Poe  was  the  most 
dissolute  and  reckless  among  them.  Though  extremely  slight  in 
person,  and  almost  effeminate  in  his  manner,  he  is  represented 
to  have  been  foremost  in  all  athletic  sports  and  games,  and  there  is 
good  testimony  to  his  having  performed  the  almost  impossible  feat 
of  swimming,  for  a  wager,  from  Richmond  to  Warwick,  a  distance 
of  seven  miles,  against  a  current  of  two  or  three  knots  an  hour. 
Notwithstanding  his  dissolute  habits  and  extravagance  at  the  Uni- 
versity, he  excelled  in  his  studies,  was  always  at  the  head  of  his 
class,  and  would,  doubtless,  have  graduated  with  honour,  had  he 
not  been  expelled  on  account  of  his  profligacy  and  wild  excesses. 


MEMOIR. 

His  allowance  of  money  had  been  liberal  at  the  University, 
but  he  quitted  it  in  debt ;  and  when  his  indulgent  friend  refused 
to  accept  his  drafts  to  meet  his  gambling  losses,  Poe  wrote  him 
an  abusive  letter,  and  quitted  the  country  with  the  design  of  offer- 
ing his  services  to  the  Greeks,  who  were  then  fighting  for  their 
emancipation  from  the  Turks.  But  he  never  reached  Greece, 
and  all  that  is  known  of  his  career  in  Europe  is,  that  he  found 
himself  in  St.  Petersburg!!,  in  extreme  destitution,  where  the 
American  Minister,  Mr.  Middleton,  was  called  upon  to  save  him 
from  arrest,  on  account  of  an  indiscretion ;  through  the  kind  offices 
of  this  gentleman  the  young  adventurer  was  sent  home  to  America, 
and,  on  his  arrival  in  Kichmond,  Mr.  Allan  received  him  with 
kindness,  forgave  him  his  past  misconduct,  and  procured  him 
a  cadetship  at  the  United  States  Military  Academy  at  West 
Point.  Unfortunately  for  him,  just  before  he  left  Eichmond 
for  his  new  appointment,  Mrs.  Allan,  the  wife  of  his  bene- 
factor, died.  She  had  always  treated  him  with  motherly  affec- 
tion, and  he  had  paid  more  deference  to  her  than  to  any  one 
else.  At  West  Point  he  applied  himself  with  great  energy  and 
success  for  a  while  to  his  new  course  of  studies ;  but  the  rigid 
discipline  of  that  institution  ill  sorted  with  the  irrepressible 
recklessness  of  his  nature,  and  after  ten  months  he  was  igno- 
miniously  expelled. 

After  leaving  "  the  Point"  he  returned  to  Eichmond,  and  was 
again  kindly  received  and  welcomed  to  his  home  by  Mr.  Allan. 


xxii 


MEMOIR. 

But  there  was  a  change  in  the  house  where  the  wayward  boy  had 
been  a  pet.  There  was  a  new  and  a  younger  mistress.  Mr.  Allan 
had  taken  a  second  wife,  a  lady  much  younger  than  himself,  and 
who  was  disposed  to  treat  the  expelled  cadet  as  a  son.  But  he 
soon  contrived  to  quarrel  with  her,  and  was  compelled  to  abandon 
the  house  of  his  adopted  father,  never  to  return.  The  cause  of  the 
quarrel  which  led  to  this  final  disruption  between  Poe  and  his 
generous  patron  has  been  variously  stated;  the  family  of  Mr. 
Allan  give  a  version  of  it  which  throws  a  dark  shade  on  the 
character  of  the  poet;  but  let  it  have  been  as  it  may,  it  must 
have  been  of  a  very  grave  nature,  for,  on  the  death  of  Mr.  Allan, 
shortly  after,  in  1834,  the  name  of  his  adopted  son,  who  it  was 
supposed  would  have  inherited  all  his  wealth,  was  not  mentioned 
in  his  will. 

On  leaving  the  house  of  his  benefactor  for  the  last  time,  Poe 
was  left  without  a  friend,  and  thrown  upon  his  own  resources.  He 
had  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  Baltimore,  just  after  his  ex- 
pulsion from  West  Point,  under  the  title  of  "  Al  Aaraaf"  and 
"  Tamerlane,"  to  which  a  few  smaller  poems  were  added.  These 
were  the  production  of  his  early  years,  probably  between  his 
fifteenth  and  sixteenth  years,  though  the  exact  date  of  their 
production  cannot  be  ascertained.  The  commendations  bestowed 
upon  these  precocious  poems  encouraged  him  to  devote  himself  to 
literature  for  a  profession.  But  his  first  attempts  to  earn  a  living  by 
literature  must  have  been  discouraging,  for  soon  after  publishing 

xxiii 


MEMOIR. 

his  first  volume,  he  was  driven  by  his  necessities  to  enlist  as  a  pri- 
vate soldier  in  the  army.  Here  he  was  recognised  by  officers  who 
had  known  him  at  West  Point,  and  who  interested  themselves  to 
obtain  his  discharge,  and,  if  possible,  a  commission.  But  their 
kind  intentions  were  frustrated  by  his  desertion.  The  next  attempt 
lie  made  in  literature  proved  more  successful ;  he  had  fruitlessly 
tried  to  find  a  publisher  for  a  volume  of  stories ;  but  on  a  premium 
of  one  hundred  dollars,  for  a  tale  in  prose,  and  a  similar  reward 
for  a  poem,  being  offered  by  the  publisher  of  a  literary  periodical 
in  Baltimore,  Poe  obtained  both  prizes ;  though  he  was  only 
allowed  to  retain  the  prize  for  the  tale,  as  it  was  thought  not 
prudent  to  give  both  prizes  to  the  same  writer.  The  tale  chosen  was 
the  "  Manuscript  found  in  a  Bottle,"  a  composition  which  con- 
tains many  of  his  most  marked  peculiarities  of  style  and  invention. 
The  award  was  made  in  October  1833,  and,  fortunately  for  the 
young  author,  there  was  one  gentleman  on  the  committee  who  made 
the  decision,  who  had  it  in  his  power  to  render  him  essential  service. 

This  was  John  P.  Kennedy,  the  novelist,  author  of  "  Horse  Shoe 
Robinson,"  and  eminent  as  a  lawyer  and  a  statesman.  To  this 
gentleman  Poe  came  on  hearing  of  his  success,  poorly  clad,  pale,  and 
emaciated  ;  he  told  his  story,  and  his  ambition,  and  at  once  gained 
the  confidence  and  affection  of  the  more  prosperous  author.  He 
was  in  utter  want,  and  had  not  yet  received  the  amount  to  whicli 
he  was  entitled  for  his  story.  Mr.  Kennedy  took  him  by  the  hand, 
furnished  him  with  means  to  render  him  immediately  comfortable, 

xxiv 


MEMOIR. 

and  enabled  him  to  make  a  respectable  appearance ;  and  in  a  short 
time  afterwards  procured  for  him  a  situation  as  editor  of  the 
"  Literary  Messenger,"  a  monthly  magazine  published  in  Rich- 
mond. In  his  new  place  he  continued  for  a  while  to  work  with 
great  industry,  and  wrote  a  great  number  of  reviews  and  tales; 
but  he  fell  into  his  old  habits,  and  after  a  debauch  quarrelled 
with  the  proprietor  of  the  "  Messenger,"  and  was  dismissed. 

It  was  one  of  the  strange  peculiarities  of  Poe  to  make  humble 
and  penitent  appeals  for  forgiveness  and  reconciliation  to  those  he 
had  offended  by  his  abuse  and  insolence,  and  he  was  no  sooner 
conscious  of  his  error  in  quarrelling  with  the  publisher  of  the 
"  Messenger"  than  he  endeavoured  to  regain  the  position  he  had 
lost.  He  was  successful ;  and  though  he  often  fell  into  his 
old  habits,  yet  he  retained  his  connexion  with  the  work  until 
January,  1837,  when  he  abandoned  the  " Messenger"  and  left 
Richmond  for  New  York.  During  his  last  residence  in  Rich- 
mond, while  working  for  a  salary  of  ten  dollars  a  week,  he 
married  his  cousin,  Virginia  Clemm,  a  young,  amiable,  and 
gentle  girl,  without  fortune  or  friends,  and  as  ill-calculated 
as  himself  to  buffet  the  waves  of  an  adverse  fortune.  In  New 
York  he  wrote  for  the  literary  periodicals,  but  soon  removed  to 
Philadelphia,  where  he  was  employed  as  editor  of  "  Burton's 
Gentleman's  Magazine;"  he  continued  but  a  year  in  his  post, 
and  after  several  quarrels  with  the  proprietor  of  the  magazine,  left 
him  to  establish  a  magazine  of  his  own.  To  have  a  magazine 


MEMOIR. 

of  his  own,  which  he  could  manage  as  he  pleased,  was  always  the 
great  ambition   of  his  life.     He  had  invented   a  title,  selected  a 
motto,  written  an  introduction,  and  made  the  entire  plans  for  the 
great  work,  which  was   to   be  called  the  "Stylus;"  it   was  the 
chimera  which  he  nursed,  the  castle  in  the   air  which  he  longed 
for,  the  rainbow  of  his  cloudy  hopes.      But  he  did  not  succeed 
in    establishing  it    then,   and    was    soon    installed   as   editor   of 
"  Graham's  Magazine."     As  a  matter  of  course  he  quarrelled  with 
Graham,  and  then  went  to  New  York,  where  he  engaged  as  a  sub- 
editor on  the  "Mirror,"  a  daily  paper,  of  which  his  friend  Willis 
was  editor.    But  he  did  not  remain  long  at  this  employment,  which 
was  wholly  unsuited  to  him,  and  he  left  the  "Mirror"  without 
quarrelling  with  the  proprietor.      During  his  engagements  with 
these   different   periodicals,   he    had   written   some   of    his   finest 
prose  tales,  had  published   an  anonymous  work  in  the  style   of 
Robinson   Crusoe,  entitled  the   "Adventures   of  Arthur    Gordon 
Pym,"  and  a  collection  of  his  tales  in  a  volume,  which  he  called 
"  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  the  Arabesque,"  and  gained  another 
prize  by  his  story  of  the  Gold  Bug.     He  was  beginning   to  be 
known  as  a  fierce  and  terrible  critic,  rather  than  as  a  poet  or  a 
writer  of  tales,  when  the  publication  of  his  poem  of  the  Raven 
in  the  "  American  Review,"  a  New  York  monthly  magazine,  first 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  literary  world  to  his  singular  and 
powerful  genius.    Up  to  the  appearance  of  this  wild  fantasy,  he  had 
not  been  generally  recognised  as  a  poet,  and  had  known  nothing  of 
society.     But   he  became  at   once  a  lion,  and  his  writings  were 


xxvi 


.    MEMOIR. 

eagerly  sought  after  by  publishers.  The  prospect  lay  bright  before 
him ;  he  abandoned  for  awhile  the  vices  which  so  fearfully  beset 
him ;  he  was  living  quietly  in  a  pleasant  rural  neighbourhood  in 
Westchester,  near  the  city,  with  his  delicate  wife  and  her  mother, 
and  a  brilliant  future  appeared  to  be  in  store  for  him.  But  he 
could  never  keep  clear  from  magazine  editing,  and  he  joined 
Mr.  C.  F.  Briggs  in  publishing  the  "  Broadway  Journal,"  a  literary 
weekly  periodical ;  but  the  inevitable  quarrel  ensued,  and  this 
project  was  abandoned  at  the  end  of  a  year.  It  was  while  editing 
the  "  Broadway  Journal "  that  he  engaged  in  furious  onslaught  upon 
Longfellow,  whom  he  accused  of  plagiarising  from  his  poems,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  involved  himself  in  numberless  disputes  and 
quarrels  with  other  authors.  But  he  also  gained  the  affection  and 
admiration  of  many  estimable  literary  people,  some  of  whom  he 
alienated  by  appearing  before  them  when  in  a  state  of  intoxication. 
He  delivered  a  lecture  on  poetry,  but  attracted  no  hearers,  and  he 
was  so  chagrined  by  his  disappointment,  that  he  fell  again  into  his 
old  habits,  and  disgusted  his  new  friends  by  his  gross  misconduct  ; 
he  involved  himself  in  another  quarrel  with  some  of  the  literati  of 
Boston,  and  to  show  his  contempt  for  them,  went  there  and  delivered 
a  poem  in  public,  which  he  pretended  to  have  written  in  his  tenth 
year.  On  his  return  to  New  York  he  was  again  reduced  to 
great  straits;  and  in  1848  he  advertised  a  series  of  lectures,  in 
order  to  raise  sufficient  means  to  put  into  execution  his  long- 
cherished  plan  of  a  magazine ;  but  he  delivered  only  one  lecture  on 
the  Cosmogony  of  the  Universe,  which  was  afterwards  published 

xxvii 


MEMOIK. 

under  the  title  of  "  Eureka,  a  Prose  Poem."  His  wife  had  died 
the  year  previously,  and  during  her  illness  he  was  reduced  to 
such  extremities  that  public  appeals,  which  were  generously  re- 
sponded to,  were  made  in  his  behalf  by  the  papers  of  New  York. 

Not  long  after  the  death  of  his  wife  he  formed  an  intimacy 
with  an  accomplished  literary  lady  of  Rhode  Island,  a  widow, 
and  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  her.  It  was  to  her  that  he 
addressed  the  poem  "  Annabel  Lee ; "  the  day  was  appointed 
for  their  marriage;  but  he  had,  in  the  meantime,  formed  other 
plans ;  and,  to  disentangle  himself  from  this  engagement,  he  visited 
the  house  of  his  affianced  bride,  where  he  conducted  himself  with 
such  indecent  violence  that  the  aid  of  the  police  had  to  be  called 
in  to  expel  him.  This,  of  course,  put  an  end  to  the  engagement. 
In  a  short  time  after  he  went  to  Richmond,  and  there  gained 
the  confidence  and  affections  of  a  lady  of  good  family  and  con- 
siderable fortune.  The  day  was  appointed  for  their  marriage, 
and  he  left  Virginia  to  return  to  New  York  to  fulfil  some  literary 
arrangements  previous  to  the  consummation  of  this  new  engage- 
ment. He  had  written  to  his  friends  that  he  had,  at  last,  a  prospect 
of  happiness.  The  Lost  Lenore  was  found.  He  arrived  in  Bal- 
timore on  his  way  to  the  north,  and  gave  his  baggage  into  the 
charge  of  a  porter,  intending  to  leave  in  an  hour  for  Philadelphia. 
Stepping  into  an  hotel  to  obtain  some  refreshments,  he  met  some 
of  his  former  companions,  who  invited  him  to  drink  with  them.  In 
a  few  moments  all  was  over  with  him.  He  spent  the  night  in 


xxviii 


MEMOIR. 

revelry,  wandered  out  into  the  street  in  a  state  of  insanity,  and 
was  found  in  the  morning  literally  dying  from  exposure,  and  a 
single  night's  excesses.  He  was  taken  to  a  hospital,  and,  on 
the  7th  October,  1849,  at  the  age  of  thirty-eight,  he  closed  his 
troubled  life.  Three  days  before  he  had  left  his  newly-affianced 
bride  to  prepare  for  their  nuptials.  He  lies  in  a  burying-ground 
in  Baltimore,  his  native  city,  without  a  stone  to  mark  the  place 
of  his  last  rest. 

In  person  Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  slight,  and  hardly  of  the  medium 
height;  his  motions  were  quick  and  nervous,  his  air  was  abstracted, 
and  his  countenance  generally  serious  and  pale.  He  never  laughed, 
and  rarely  smiled;  but  in  conversation  he  was  vivacious,  earnest, 
and  respectful ;  and  though  he  appeared  generally  under  restraint, 
as  though  guarding  against  a  half-subdued  passion,  yet  his  manners 
were  engaging,  and  he  never  failed  to  win  the  confidence  and  kind 
feelings  of  those  with  whom  he  conversed  for  the  first  time;  and 
there  were  a  few  who  knew  him  long  and  intimately  who  could 
never  believe  that  he  was  ever  otherwise  than  the  pleasant,  in- 
telligent, respectful,  and  earnest  companion  he  appeared  to  them. 
Though  he  was  at  times  so  reckless  and  profligate  in  his  conduct, 
and  so  indifferent  to  external  proprieties,  he  was  generally  scru- 
pulously exact  in  everything  he  did.  He  dressed  with  extreme 
neatness  and  perfectly  good  taste,  avoiding  all  ornaments  and 
everything  of  a  bizarre  appearance.  He  was  painfully  alive  to  all 
imperfections  of  art;  and  a  false  rhyme,  an  ambiguous  sentence,  or 

xxix 


THE  RAVEX. 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and  wean- 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tap} 

i 


)ing, 

B 


T1IK    RAYKN. 

As  tit'  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
••  Tis  some  visitor,"  I  mtitt"iv<l.  "  tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  tliis  and  nothing  more.'' 

All.  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying1  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Kagerly  I  wished  the  morrow  ; — -vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
I'Yom  my  hooks  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lcnorc — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before  ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  heating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating, 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
Sonic  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door ; 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger  ;   hesitating  then  no  longer, 
••  Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore; 
Hut  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping. 
And  BO  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  1  heard  you  " — here  I  opened  wide  the  door  ; 


Darkness  there  and  nothing  more 

Derp  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to  dream  before  ; 

2 


THE   RAVEN . 


But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token, 

And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word,  "  Lenore  !" 


This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word.  "  Lenore  !  " 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 


THE    RAVEN. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning-, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  something  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window  lattice  ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore — 
I  jet  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  explore  ;— 

'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped  or  stayed  he  ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
*•  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "art  sure  no  craven 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the  Nightly  shore — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Kver  vet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Uird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore/' 


THE    RAVEN. 

Hut  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  farther  then  he  uttered ;  not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "  Other  friends  have  flown  before — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore.' 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 

Of  '  Never — nevermore.'  " 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 

Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and  bust  and  door  ; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core  ; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er, 
Hut  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore  ! 


THE    RAVEN. 


Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  Seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 


••  \Vretch,''  I  cried, "'  thy  God  hath  lent  thee-by  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  <>f   Lcimre  ! 


THE    RAYKX. 

Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe  and  forget  this  lost  Lenoiv  ! "' 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "•  Nevermore." 

'*  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! — 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted — 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 

Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? — tell  me — tell  me,  I  implore  !  " 

Quoth  the  Haven,  "  Nevermore." 

••  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil— prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both  adore--- 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  Angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  Haven,  "  Nevermore." 

*'  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend  ! "  I  shrieked,  upstarting 

"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  ! — quit  the  bust  above  my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door  ! " 

Quoth  the  Haven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door  ; 


THE   RAVEN. 


And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamp -light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor  ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 


LENORE. 

AH,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl  !  the  spirit  flown  for  ever ! 
Let  the  bell  toll  ! — a  saintly  soul  floats  on  the  Stygian  river ; 
And,  Guy  De  Vere,  hast  thou  no  tear  ? — weep  now  or  never  more  ! 

c 


LENORE. 

See  !  on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies  thy  love,  Lenore  ! 
Come !  let  the  burial  rite  be  read — the  funeral  song  be  sung  !- 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that  ever  died  so  young — 
A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that  she  died  so  young. 


ETCHES  !  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth  and  hated  her  for  her  pride, 
And  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health,  ye  blessed  her — that  she 

died! 

How  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read  ? — the  requiem  how  be  sung 
By  you — by  yours,  the   evil   eye, — by   yours,   the   slanderous 

tongue 
That  did  to  death  the  innocence  that  died,  and  died  so  young  ?  " 


Peccavimus ;  but  rave  not  thus  !  and  let  a  Sabbath  song 

* 

Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly  the  dead  may  feel  no  wrong  ! 

The  sweet  Lenore  hath  "  gone  before,"  with  Hope,  that  flew  beside, 

Leaving  thee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that  should  have  been  thy  bride- 

For  her,  the  fair  and  debonnaire,  that  now  so  lowly  lies, 

The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair,  but  not  within  her  eyes — 

The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair — the  death  upon  her  eyes. 


Avaunt !  to-night  my  heart  is  light.     No  dirge  will  I  upraise, 
But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a  pa3an  of  old  days ! 
Let  no  bell  toll ! — lest  her  sweet  soul,  amid  its  hallowed  mirth, 

10 


LENORE. 


Should  catch  the  note,  as  it  doth  float  up  from  the  damned  Earth. 
To  friends  ahove,  from  fiends  below,  the  indignant  ghost  is  riveu- 


From  Hell  unto  a  high  estate  far  up  within  the  Heaven 

From  grief  and  groan,  to  a  golden  throne,  beside  the  King  of  Heaven.' 


A   VALENTINE. 

OR  her  this  rhyme  is  penned,  whose  luminous  eyes, 

Brightly  expressive  as  the  twins  of  Loeda, 
Shall  find  her  own  sweet  name,  that,  nestling  lies 
Upon  the  page,  enwrapped  from  every  reader. 
Search  narrowly  the  lines ! — they  hold  a  treasure 

Divine — a  talisman — an  amulet 
That  must  be  worn  at  heart.     Search  well  the  measure — 

The  words — the  syllables  !     Do  not  forget 
The  trivialest  point,  or  you  may  lose  your  labour  ! 
And  yet  there  is  in  this  no  Gordian  knot 
Which  one  might  not  undo  without  a  sabre, 
If  one  could  merely  comprehend  the  plot. 
Kn  written  upon  the  leaf  where  now  are  peering 

Eyes'  scintillating  soul,  there  lie  pen! us 
Three  eloquent  words  oft  uttered  in  the  hearing 

<  )f  poets,  by  poets — as  the  name  is  a  poet's,  too. 
Its  letters,  although  naturally  lying 

Like  the  knight  Pinto — Mendez  Ferdinando  — 
Still  form  a  synonym  for  Truth. — Coase  trying  ! 

You  will  not  mid  tin-  riddle,  though  you  do  the  best  you  can  do. 


[To  translate  the  address,  read  the  first  letter  of  the  first  line  in  connexion  with  the 
second  letter  of  the  second  line,  the  third  letter  of  the  third  line,  the  fourtli  of  the  fourth, 
and  90  on  to  the  end.  The  name  will  thus  appear.] 


THE  COLISEUM. 


TYPE  of  the  antique  Rome  !     Rich  reliquary 
Of  lofty  contemplation  left  to  Time 
By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power ! 
At  length — at  length — after  so  many  days 

13 


THE  COLISEUM. 

Of  weary  pilgrimage  and  burning  thirst, 
(Thirst  for  the  springs  of  lore  that  in  thee  lie,) 
I  kneel,  an  altered  and  an  humble  man, 
Amid  thy  shadows,  and  so  drink  within 
My  very  soul  thy  grandeur,  gloom,  and  glory  ! 

Vastness  !  and  Age  !  and  Memories  of  Eld  ! 
Silence  !  and  Desolation  !  and  dim  Night ! 
I  feel  ye  now — I  feel  ye  in  your  strength — 
O  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judaean  king 
Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemane  ! 
O  charms  more  potent  than  the  rapt  Chaldee 
Ever  drew  down  from  out  the  quiet  stars  ! 

Here,  where  a  hero  fell,  a  column  falls  ! 

Here,  where  the  mimic  eagle  glared  in  gold, 

A  midnight  vigil  holds  the  swarthy  bat ! 

Here,  where  the  dames  of  Rome  their  gilded  hair 

Waved  to  the  wind,  now  wave  the  reed  and  thistle  ! 

Here,  where  on  golden  throne  the  monarch  lolled, 

Glides,  spectre-like,  unto  his  marble  home, 

Lit  by  the  wan  light  of  the  horned  moon, 

The  swift  and  silent  lizard  of  the  stones  ! 

But  stay  !  these  walls — these  ivy-clad  arcades — 
These  mouldering  plinths — these  sad  and  blackened  shafts- 
These  vague  entablatures— this  crumbling  frieze — 
These  shattered  cornices — this  wreck — this  ruin — 
These  stones — alas  !  these  grey  stones — are  they  all — 
All  of  the  famed  and  the  colossal  left 
By  the  corrosive  Hours  to  Fate  and  me  ? 

14 


THE  COLISEUM. 

Not  all  " — the  Echoes  answer  me — "  not  all ! 

Prophetic  sounds  and  loud  arise  for  ever 

From  us,  and  from  all  Kuin,  unto  the  wise, 

As  melody  from  Memnon  to  the  Sun. 

We  rule  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men — we  rule 

With  a  despotic  sway  all  giant  minds. 

We  are  not  impotent — we  pallid  stones. 

Not  all  our  power  is  gone — not  all  our  fame — 

Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown — 

Not  all  the  wonder  that  encircles  us — 

Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie — 

Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upon 

And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment, 

Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory.'' 


TO 


OT  long  ago,  the  writer  of  these  lines, 

In  the  mad  pride  of  intellectuality, 

Maintained  "  the  power  of  words  " — denied  that  ever 
A  thought  arose  within  the  human  brain 
Beyond  the  utterance  of  the  human  tongue  : 

15 


And  now,  as  if  in  mockery  of  that  boast, 

Two  words — two  foreign  soft  dissyllables — 

Italian  tones,  made  only  to  be  murmured 

By  angels  dreaming  in  the  moonlit  "  dew 

That  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermoii  hill,"  - 

Have  stirred  from  out  the  abysses  of  his  heart, 

Unthought-like  thoughts  that  are  the  souls  of  thought, 

Kicher,  far  wilder,  far  diviner  visions 

Than  even  the  seraph  harper,  Israfel, 

(Who  has  "  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures,") 

Could  hope  to  utter.     And  I !  my  spells  are  broken. 

The  pen  falls  powerless  from  my  shivering  hand. 

With  thy  dear  name  as  text,  though  bidden  by  thee, 

I  cannot  write — I  cannot  speak  or  think — 

Alas,  I  cannot  feel ;  for  'tis  not  feeling, 

This  standing  motionless  upon  the  golden 

Threshold  of  the  wide-open  gate  of  dreams, 

Gazing,  entranced,  adown  the  gorgeous  vista, 

And  thrilling  as  I  see,  upon  the  right, 

Upon  the  left,  and  all  the  way  along, 

Amid  unpurpled  vapours,  far  away 

To  where  the  prospect  terminates — thee  only. 


TO  HELEN. 

I  SAW  thee  once — once  onlv — years  ago  : 

I  must  not  say  how  many — but  not  many. 

It  was  a  July  midnight ;  and  from  out 

A  mil-orbed  moon,  that,  like  thine  own  soul,  soaring, 

17  D 


TO  HELEN. 

Sought  a  precipitate  pathway  up  through  heaven, 
There  fell  a«  silvery-silken  veil  of  light, 
With  quietude,  and  sultriness,  and  slumber, 
Upon  the  uptum'd  faces  of  a  thousand 
Roses  that  grew  in  an  enchanted  garden, 
Where  no  wind  dared  to  stir,  unless  on  tiptoe — 
Fell  on  the  upturn'd  faces  of  these  roses, 
That  gave  out,  in  return  for  the  love-light, 
Their  odorous  souls  in  an  ecstatic  death- 
Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  these  roses 
That  smiled  and  died  in  this  parterre,  enchanted 
By  thee,  and  by  the  poetry  of  thy  presence. 

LAD  all  in  white,  upon  a  violet  bank 
I  saw  thee  half  reclining  ;  while  the  moon 
Fell  on  the  upturn'd  faces  of  the  roses, 
And  on  thine  own,  upturn'd — alas,  in  sorrow  ! 

Was  it  not  Fate,  that,  on  this  July  midnight — 
Was  it  not  Fate  (whose  name  is  also  Sorrow) 
That  bade  me  pause  before  that  garden-gate, 
To  breathe  the  incense  of  those  slumbering  roses  ? 
No  footstep  stirred  :  the  hated  world  all  slept, 
Save  only  thee  and  me.     (Oh,  Heaven  ! — oh,  God  ! 
How  my  heart  beats  in  coupling  those  two  words  !) 
Save  only  thee  and  me.     I  paused — I  looked — 
And  in  an  instant  all  things  disappeared. 
(Ah,  bear  in  mind  this  garden  was  enchanted  !) 


TO  HELEX. 


The  pearly  lustre  of  the  moon  went  out : 
The  mossv  banks  and  the  meandering  paths, 


The  happy  flowers  and  the  repining  trees, 
Were  seen  no  more  :  the  very  roses'  odours 
Died  in  the  arms  of  the  adoring  airs. 


TO  HELEN. 

All — all  expired  save  thee — save  less  than  tliou  : 
Save  only  the  divine  light  in  thine  eyes — 
Save  but  the  soul  in  thine  uplifted  eyes. 
I  saw  but  them — they  were  the  world  to  me. 
I  saw  but  them — saw  only  them  for  hours — 
Saw  only  them  until  the  moon  went  down. 
What  wild  heart-histories  seemed  to  lie  eiiwritten 
Upon  those  crystalline,  celestial  spheres  ! 
How  dark  a  woe  !  yet  how  sublime  a  hope  ! 
How  silently  serene  a  sea  of  pride  ! 
How  daring  an  ambition  !  yet  how  deep — 
How  fathomless  a  capacity  for  love  ! 

? 

IIT  now,  at  length,  dear  Dion  sank  from  sight, 
Into  a  western  couch  of  thunder-cloud ; 

And  thou,  a  ghost,  amid  the  entombing  trees 

Didst  glide  away.     Only  thine  eyes  remained. 

They  would  not  go — they  never  yet  have  gone. 

Lighting  my  lonely  pathway  home  that  night, 

They  have  not  left  me  (as  my  hopes  have)  since. 

They  follow  me — they  lead  me  through  the  year,-;. 

They  are  my  ministers — yet  I  their  slave. 

Their  office  is  to  illumine  and  enkindle — 

My  duty,  to  be  saved  by  their  bright  light, 

And  purified  in  their  electric  fire, 

And  sanctified  in  their  elysian  fire. 

They  fill  my  soul  with  Beauty  (which  is  Hope), 

And  are  far  up  in  heaven — the  stars  I  kneel  to 


TO  HELEN. 


In  the  sad,  silent  watches  of  my  night ; 
While  even  in  the  meridian  glare  of  day 


I  see  them  still — two  sweetly  scintillant 
Venuses,  unextinguished  by  the  sun  ! 


AN  ENIGMA. 


ELDOM  we  find,"  says  Solomon  Don  Dunce, 

"  Half  an  idea  in  the  profoundest  sonnet. 
Through  all  the  flimsy  things  we  see  at  once 
As  easily  as  through  a  Naples  bonnet — 
Trash  of  all  trash  ! — how  can  a  lady  don  it  ? 
Yet  heavier  far  than  your  Petrarchan  stuff— 
Owl-downy  nonsense  that  the  faintest  puff 

Twirls  into  trunk-paper  the  while  you  con  it." 
And,  veritably,  Sol  is  right  enough. 
The  general  tuckermanities  are  arrant 
Bubbles — ephemeral  and  so  transparent — 

But  this  is,  now, — you  may  depend  upon  it — 
Stable,  opaque,  immortal — all  by  dint 
Ot  the  dear  names  that  lie  concealed  within  't. 


ULALUME. 

THE  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere — 
The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere  ; 

It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 


ULALUME. 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year  ; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic, 

Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul — 
Of  cypress,  with  Pysche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll — 
As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole — 

That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere — 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere — 

For  we  knew  riot  the  month  was  October, 

And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year — 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year !) 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber — 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here) — 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

Nor  the  ghoul -haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 


ULALUME. 

And  now,  as  the  uight  was  senescent 
And  star-dials  pointed  to  mom — 
As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn — 

At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 
And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 

Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 
Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn — 

Astarte's  bediaiuonded  crescent 

Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said — "  She  is  wanner  than  Dian  : 
She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs — 
She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs  : 

She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 

And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 
To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies — 
To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies — 

Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes — 

Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 
With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 

But  Pysche,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said — "  Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust — 
Her  pah1  or  I  strangely  mistrust : — 

Oh,  hasten  ! — oh,  let  us  not  linger  ! 

Oh,  fly  !  let  us  fly  !— for  we  must." 

25  E 


ULALUME. 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 

Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust — 

In  agony  sohbed,  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust — 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

I  replied — "  This  is  nothing  but  dreaming  : 

Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light ! 

Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 
Its  Sybilic  splendour  is  beaming 

With  Hope  and  in  Beauty  to-night  :— 

See  ? — it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night ! 
Ah,  Ave  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright— 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 

That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright, 

Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the  night." 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom — 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom  ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb — 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb ; 

And  I  said — "  What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb  ?  " 
She  replied — "  Ulalume — Ulalume — 
'Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume  !  " 

26 


ULALUME. 


Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 

As  the  .leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere — 


As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere. 
And  I  cried — "  It  was  surely  October 

27 


TO  . 

On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I  journeyed — I  journeyed  down  here — 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here — 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here  ? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber — 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 


TO  . 

_L  HEED  not  that  my  earthly  lot 

Hath — little  of  Earth  in  it— 
That  years  of  love  have  been  forgot 

In  the  hatred  of  a  minute  :  — 
I  mourn  not  that  the  desolate 

Are  happier,  sweet,  than  I, 
But  that  you  sorrow  for  my  fate 

Who  am  n  pnssor  l>y. 

28 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 


ECAUSE  I  feel  that,  in  the  heavens  above, 
The  angels,  whispering  to  one  another, 
Can  find,  among  their  burning  terms  of  love, 

None  so  devotional  as  that  of  "  Mother," 
Therefore  by  that  dear  name  I  long  have  called  you — 

You  who  are  more  than  mother  unto  me, 
And  fill  my  heart  of  hearts,  where  Death  installed  you 

In  setting  my  Virginia's  spirit  free. 
My  mother — my  own  mother,  who  died  early, 

Was  but  the  mother  of  myself;  but  you 
Are  mother  to  the  one  I  loved  so  dearly, 

And  thus  are  dearer  than  the  mother  I  knew 
By  that  infinity  with  which  my  wife 
AVas  dearer  to  mv  soul  than  its  soul-life. 


THE  BELLS. 


i. 

HEAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 

Silver  bells  ! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
IIo\v  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 
In  the  icy  air  of  night  ! 
so 


THE  BELLS. 

While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  beUs, 

Bells,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

ii. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 

Golden  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  I 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 

What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 

To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon  ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  ! 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 

Of  the  rapture  that  impels 

To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 


THE  BELLS. 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 


Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells ! 


THE   BELLS. 


in. 


EAR  the  loud  alarum  bells  — 

Brazen  bells ! 

What  a  tale  of  terror  now  their  turbulency  tells  ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

Iii  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  inad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire. 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavour, 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair ! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar  ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 


THE    BELLS. 


On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 


'•- 


1>\  tl 

And  tlic  clangin 

34 


THE   BELLS. 

How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flow*  ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bell.( 

Of  tho  hells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells.  bells- 
In  the  clamour  and  the  clangour  of  the  bells  ! 


IV. 


Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells —  , 

Iron  bells ! 

"What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels  ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 
Is  a  groan. 


THE  BELLS. 


Anil  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 


All  alone, 
And  wlio  tolling',  tolling,  tolling. 


THE    BELLS. 

In  that  mufflk'd  monotone, 

Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  Ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls  ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls 

A  pa?an  from  the  bells  ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells  ! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  pa?an  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells  : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 
( >f  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme. 


THE   BELLS. 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells- 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


THE  CONQUEROR  W<>K.M. 


O  !  'tis  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years  ! 
kjf      An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theatre,  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 
The  music  of  the  spheres. 


Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low. 
And  hither  and  thither  fly — 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro. 
Flapping  from  out  their  Condor 

Invisible  Woe  ! 

ss 


THE  CONQUEROR  WORM. 

That  motley  drama — oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot ! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore, 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not, 
Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To  the  self-same  spot, 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 


But  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout 

A  crawling  shape  intrude  ! 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude ! 
It  writhes  ! — it  writhes  ! — with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food, 
And  the  angels  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbued. 


Out — out  are  the  lights — out  all ! 

And,  over  each  quivering  form, 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 


THtf  CONQUEROR  WORM. 

And  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 
Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 

That  the  play  is  the  tragedy  "  Man," 
And  its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm. 


ANNABEL  LEE. 

IT  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 

42 


ANNABEL  LEE. 

And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 
Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

/  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea : 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love — 

I  and  my  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsman  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven . 

Went  envying  her  and  me — 
Yes ! — that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  ANNABEL  LEE. 

43 


ANNABEL  LEE. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 
Of  those  who  were  older  than  we — 
Of  many  far  wiser  than  we — 


And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 
Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 

44 


ANNABEL  LEE. 

Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 
Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  : 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my^darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  UNREST. 


NCE  it  smiled  a  silent  dell 
Where  the  people  did  not  dwell ; 
They  had  gone  unto  the  wars, 
Trusting  to  the  mild-eyed  stars, 
Nightly,  from  their  azure  towers, 
To  keep  watch  above  the  flowers, 
In  the  midst  of  which  all  day 
The  red  sun-light  lazily  lay. 
Now  each  visitor  shall  confess 
The  sad  valley's  restlessness. 
Nothing  there  is  motionless — 
Nothing  save  the  airs  that  brood 
Over  the  magic  solitude. 
Ah,  by  no  wind  are  stirred  those  trees 
That  palpitate  like  the  chill  seas 
Around  the  misty  Hebrides  ! 
Ah,  by  no  wind  those  clouds  are  driven 
That  rustle  through  the  unquiet  heaven 
Uneasily,  from  morn  till  even, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  UNREST. 

Over  the  violets  there  that  lie 

In  myriad  types  of  the  human  eye — 

Over  the  lilies  there  that  wave 

And  weep  above  a  nameless  grave  ! 

They  wave  : — from  out  their  fragrant  tops 

Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops. 

They  weep  : — from  off  their  delicate  stems 

Perennial  tears  descend  in  gems. 


ISRAFEL.* 

IN  heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

"  Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute  ;  " 


*  And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute,  and  who  has  the  sweetest 
voice  of  all  God's  creatures. — KORAN. 

48 


1SRAFEL. 

Xone  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell) 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 


Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamoured  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  heaven. 


And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings — 

The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 


ISRAFEL 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty— 

Where  Love's  a  grown-up  God — 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 
Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore,  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song ; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest ! 
Merrily  live,  and  long  ! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit — 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervour  of  thy  lute — 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute  ! 

Yes,  heaven  is  thine  ;   but  this 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours  ; 
Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers, 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

50 


ISRAFEL. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  holder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 


SILENCE. 


HERE  are  some  qualities — some  incorporate  things, 

That  have  a  double  life,  which  thus  is  made 
A  type  of  that  twin  entity  which  springs 

From  matter  and  light,  evinced  in  solid  and  shade. 
There  is  a  two-fold  Silence — sea  and  shore — 
Body  and  soul.     One  dwells  in  lonely  places, 
Newly  with  grass  o'ergrown  ;  some  solemn  graces, 
Some  human  memories  and  tearful  lore, 
Render  him  terrorless  :  his  name's  "  No  More." 
IT1  is  the  corporate  Silence  :   dread  him  not ! 

No  power  hath  he  of  evil  in  himself; 
But  should  some  urgent  fate  (untimely  lot !) 

Bring  thee  to  meet  his  shadow  (nameless  elf, 
That  haunteth  the  lone  regions  where  hath  trod 
No  foot  of  man),  commend  thyself  to  God  ! 


TO  ZANTE. 

FAIR  isle,  that  from  the  fairest  of  all  flowers, 
Thy  gentlest  of  all  gentle  names  dost  take  ! 


TO   ZANTE. 

How  many  memories  of  what  radiant  hours 

At  sight  of  thee  and  thine  at  once  awake  ! 
How  many  scenes  of  what  departed  bliss  ! 

How  many  thoughts  of  what  entombed  hopes  ! 
How  many  visions  of  a  maiden  that  is 

N o  more — no  more  upon  thy  verdant  slopes  ! 
No  more  f  alas,  that  magical  sad  sound 

Transforming  all !     Thy  charms  shall  please  no  more — 
Thy  memory  no  more  !     Accursed  ground 

Henceforth  I  hold  thy  flower-enamelled  shore, 
O  hyacinthine  isle  !     O  purple  Zantc  ! 

"  Isola  d'oro  !     Fior  di  Lcvantc  !  " 


TO  F- 


-8   S.   O- 


-D. 


HOU  wouldst  be  loved  ? — then  let  thy  heart 

From  its  present  pathway  part  not ! 
Being  everything  which  now  thou  art, 

Be  nothing  which  thou  art  not. 
So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways, 

Thy  grace,  thy  more  than  beauty, 
Shall  be  an  endless  theme  of  praise, 
And  love — a  simple  duty. 


BRIDAL  BALLAD. 


HE  ring  is  on  my  hand, 

And  the  wreath  is  on  my  brow 
Satins  and  jewels  grand 
Are  all  at  my  command, 
And  I  am  happy  now. 


And  my  lord  he  loves  me  well ; 

But,  when  first  he  breathed  his  vow, 
I  felt  my  bosom  swell—- 
For the  words  rang  as  a  knell, 
And  the  voice  seemed  his  who  fell 
In  the  battle  down  the  dell, 

And  who  is  happy  now. 

But  he  spoke  to  reassure  me, 

And  he  kissed  my  pallid  brow, 
While  a  reverie  came  o'er  me, 
And  to  the  church-yard  bore  me, 
And  I  sighed  to  him  before  me, 
Thinking  him  dead  D'Elormie, 
'•  Oh,  I  am  happy  now  !  " 


BRIDAL  BALLAD. 

And  thus  the  words  were  spoken, 
And  thus  the  plighted  vow ; 

And  though  my  faith  be  broken, 

And  though  my  heart  be  broken, 

Behold  the  golden  token 
That  proves  me  happy  now  ! 

Would  God  I  could  awaken  ! 

For  I  dream  I  know  not  how, 
And  my  soul  is  sorely  shaken 
Lest  an  evil  step  be  taken, — 
Lest  the  dead  who  is  forsaken 

May  not  be  happy  now. 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE. 

IN  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 
By  good  angels  tenanted, 

( )nee  a  fair  and  stately  palace — 
Kail  in  nt  palace — reared  its  head. 


THE   HAUNTED   PALACE. 

In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion- 
It  stood  there ! 

Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 
Over  fabric  half  so  fair  ! 


Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow, 
(This — all  this — was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago,) 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odour  went  away. 


Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley, 

Through  two  luminous  windows,  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-timed  law, 
Hound  about  a  throne  where,  sitting 

(Porphyrogene  !) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

59 


THE   HAUNTED   PALACE. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace-door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king- 


But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate. 
'(Ah,  let  us  mourn! — for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate !) 
And  round  about  his  home,  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 


Andjtravellers  now,  within  that  valley, 
Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 

Vast  forms,  that  move  fantastically 
To  a  discordant  melody, 


THE   HAUNTED   PALACE. 

While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  for  ever 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 


EULALIE. 


I  DWELT  alone 

In  a  world  of  moan, 
And  my  soul  was  a  stagnant  tide, 

Till  the  fair  and  gentle  Eulalie  became  my  blushing  bride — 
Till  the  yellow-haired  young  Eulalio  became  my  smiling  bride. 

02 


EULALIE. 

Ah,  less — less  bright 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Than  the  eyes  of  the  radiant  girl ! 
And  never  a  flake 
That  the  vapour  can  make 
With  the  moon-tints  of  purple  and  pearl, 
Can  vie  with  the  modest  Eulalie's  most  unregarded  curl — 
Can  compare  with  the  bright-eyed  Eulalie's  most  humble  and  careless  curl. 

"Now  Doubt — noAv  Pain 
Come  never  again, 
For  her  soul  gives  me  sigh  for  sigh, 
And  all  day  long 
Shines,  bright  and  strong, 
Astarte  within  the  sky, 

While  ever  to  her  dear  Eulalie  upturns  her  matron  eye — 
While  ever  to  her  young  Eulalie  upturns  her  violet  eye. 


TO  F- 


ELOVED  !    amid  the  earnest  woes 
That  crowd  around  my  earthly  path — 
(Drear  path,  alas  !    where  grows 
Not  even  one  lonely  rose) — 

My  soul  at  least  a  solace  hath 
In  dreams  of  thee,  and  therein  knows 
An  Eden  of  bland  repose. 


And  thus  thy  memory  is  to  me 
Like  some  enchanted  far-off  isle 

In  some  tumultuous  sea — 

Some  ocean  throbbing  far  and  free 
With  storms — but  where  meanwhile 

Serenest  skies  continually 

Just  o'er  that  one  bright  island  smile. 


(54 


TO  ONE  IX  PARADISE. 


THOU  wast  that  all  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine— 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  all  t4ie  flowers  were  mine. 

60  K 


TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last  ! 

Ah.  starry  Hope  !  that  didst  nrisc 
But  to  he  overcast  ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
"  On  !  on  !" — but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf!)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast ! 

For,  alas  !  alas  !  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er  ! 

"  No  more — no  more — no  more — 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar  ! 

And  all  my  days  are  trances. 
And  all  my  nightly  dreams 

Are  where  thy  dark  eye  glamvs, 
And  where  thy  footstep  gleams — 

In  what  ethereal  dances, 
BY  what  eternal  streams. 


DBEAM-LAND. 

V  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  ^SI 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  reached  these  lands  but  newly 
From  an  ultimate  dim  Thule — 
From  a  wild  weird  clime  that  lieth,  sublime 
Out  of  SPACE — out  of  TIME. 


Bottomless  vales  and  boundless  floods. 
And  chasms,  and  caves,  and  Titan  woods, 
With  forms  that  no  man  can  discover 
For  the  dews  that  drip  all  over  ; 
Mountains  toppling  evermore 

67 


DREAMLAND. 

Into  seas  without  a  shore  ; 
Seas  that  restlessly  aspire, 
Surging,  unto  skies  of  fire ; 
Lakes  that  endlessly  outspread 
Their  lone  waters — lone  and  dead, — 
Their  still  waters — still  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily. 
By  the  lakes  that  thus  outspread 
Their  lone  waters,  lone  and  dead, — 
Their  sad  waters,  sad  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily, — 
By  the  mountains — near  the  river 
Murmuring  lowly,  murmuring  ever, — 
By  the  grey  woods, — by  the  swamp 
Where  the  toad  and  the  newt  encamp, — 
By  the  dismal  tarns  and  pools 

"Where  dwell  the  Ghouls, — 
By  each  spot  the  most  unholy — 
In  each  nook  most  melancholy, — 
There  the  traveller  meets  aghast 
Sheeted  Memories  of  the  Past — 
Shrouded  forms  that  start  and  sigh 
As  they  pass  the  wanderer  by — 
White-robed  forms  of  friends  long  given. 
In  agony,  to  the  Earth — and  Heaven. 


DREAM-LAND. 

For  the  heart  whose,  woe*  are  le 
'Tis  a  peaceful,  soothing  region 


For  the  spirit  that  walks  in  shadow 
'Tis— oh,  'tis  an  Eldorado  ! 

69 


DREAM-LAND. 

But  the  traveller,  travelling  through  it. 
May  not — dare  not  openly  view  it ; 
Never  its  mysteries  are  exposed 
To  the  weak  human  eye  unclosed  ; 
So  wills  its  King,  who  hath  forbid 
The  uplifting  of  the  fringed  lid  ; 
And  thus  the  sad  Soul  that  here  passi-.s 
Beholds  it  but  through  darkened  glasses. 

By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  NIGHT, 
( )n  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  wandered  home  but  newly 
bYoin  this  ultimate  dim  Thule. 


IfVMX 


T  morn — at  noon — at  twilight  dim — 
.Maria  !  thou  hast  heard  my  hymn  ! 
In  joy  and  woe — in  good  and  ill- 
Mother  of  God,  be  with  me  still  ! 

the  Hours  flew  brightly  by. 
And  not  a  cloud  obscured  the  sky, 
My  soul,  lest  it  should  truant  be, 
Thy  grace  did  guide  to  thine  and  th<'«>  : 
Now,  when  storms  of  Fate  oVrc;t-t 
Darkly  my  Present  and  my  P.xt. 
Let  my  Future  radiant  shine 
With  sweet  hopes  of  thee  and  thine  ! 


THE  SLEEPER. 

AT  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 
I  stand  hi'iionth  tin*  mystic  moon. 


THE  SLEEPER. 

An  opiate  vapour,  dewy,  dim, 
Exhales  from  out  her  golden  rim, 
And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 
Upon  the  quiet  mountain  top, 
Steals  drowsily  and  musically 
Into  the  universal  valley. 
The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave  : 
The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave  ; 
Wrapping  the  fog  about  its  breast. 
The  ruin  moulders  into  rest ; 
Looking  like  Lethe,  see  !  the  lake 
A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take. 
And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 
All  Beauty  sleeps  ! — and  lo  !  where  lies 
(Her  casement  open  to  the  skies) 
Irene,  with  her  Destinies  ! 

Oh,  lady  bright  !  can  it  be  right — 
This  window  open  to  the  night  ? 
The  wanton  ail's,  from  the  tree-top, 
Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop — 
The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 
Flit  through  thy  chamber  in  and  out, 
And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 
So  fitfully — so  fearfully — 

7.1 


THE  SLEEPER. 

Above  the  close  and  fringed  lid 
'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  lies  hid, 
That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 
Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall !, 
Oh,  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear  ? 
Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here  ? 
Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 
A  wonder  to  these  garden  trees  ! 
Strange  is  thy  pallor  !  strange  thy  dress  ! 
Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress, 
And  this  all  solemn  silentness  ! 

The  lady  sleeps.     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep ! 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep  ! 
This  chamber  changed  for  one  more  holy, 
This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy, 
I  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 
For  ever  with  unopened  eye, 
While  the  dim  sheeted  ghosts  go  by  ! 

My  love,  she  sleeps  !     Oh,  may  her  sleep 
As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep ! 
Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep  ! 
Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 

74 


THE  SLEEPER. 

For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold — 
Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black 
And  winged  panels  fluttering  back, 
Triumphant,  o'er  the  crested  palls, 
Of  her  grand  family  funerals — 
Some  sepulchre,  remote,  alone, 
Against  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown, 
In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone — 
Some  tomb  from  out  whose  sounding  door 
She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 
Thrilling  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin  ! 
It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within. 


FOR  ANNIE. 


HANK  Heaven  !    the  crisis — 

The  danger  is  past. 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last — 
And  the  fever  called  "  Living  " 
Is  conquered  at  last. 

Sadly,  1  know 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length — 
Hut  no  matter  ! — I  feel 

1  am  hotter  at  length. 

And  I  rest  so  composedly. 

Now.  in  my  hed, 
Tlmt  ;niy  lidiolder 

Might  fancy  me  dead — 


FOR  ANNIE. 

Might  start  at  beholding  me, 
Thinking  me  dead. 

The  moaning  and  groaning, 
The  sighing  and  sobbing, 

Are  quieted  now, 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 

At  heart : — ah,  that  horrible, 
Horrible  throbbing ! 

The  sickness — the  nausea — 

The  pitiless  pain — 
Have  ceased,  with  the  fever 

That  maddened  my  brain — 
With  the  fever  called  "  Living  " 

That  burned  in  my  brain. 

And  oh  !    of  all  tortures 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has  abated — the  terrible 

Torture  of  thirst 
For  the  naphthaline  river 

Of  Passion  accurst  :— 
I  have  drunk  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst  :— 

77 


FOR  ANNIE. 

Of  a  water  that  flows, 
With  a  lullaby  sound, 


From  a  spring;  but  a  very  few 

Feet  under  uTound — • 


FOR  ANNIE. 

From  a  cavern  not  very  far 
Down  under  ground. 

And  ah  !    let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  my  room  it  is  gloomy 

And  narrow  my  bed  ; 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  different  bed — 
And,  to  sleep,  you  must  slumber 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

My  tantalized  spirit 
Here  blandly  reposes. 

Forgetting,  or  never 
Regretting  its  roses — 

Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses : 

For  now,  while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
A  holier  odour 

About  itf  of  pausies — 
A  rosemary  odour, 

79 


FOR  ANNIE. 

Commingled  with  pansies — 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 
Puritan  pansies. 

And  so  it  lies  happily. 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  of  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie — 
Drowned  in  a  bath 

Of  the  tresses  of  Annie. 

She  tenderly  kissed  me, 

She  fondly  caressed, 
And  then  I  fell  gently 

To  sleep  on  her  breast — 
Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 

When  the  light  was  extinguished, 

She  covered  me  warm, 
And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 

To  keep  me  from  harm — 
To  the  queen  of  the  angels 

To  shield  me  from  harm. 


FOR  ANNIE. 

And  I  lie  so  composedly. 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
(Knowing  her  love) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead — 
And  I  rest  so  contentedly, 

Now  in  my  bed, 
(With  her  love  at  my  breast) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead — 
That  you  shudder  to  look  at  me, 

Thinking  me  dead : — 

But  my  heart  it  is  brighter 

Than  all  of  the  many 
Stars  in  the  sky, 

For  it  sparkles  with  Annie — 
It  glows  with  the  light 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie — 
With  the  thought  of  the  light 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 


ELDORADO. 


GAILY  bedight, 
A  gallant  knight, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 
Had  journeyed  long, 
Singing  a  song, 

In  search  of  Eldorado. 

But  he  grew  old — 
This  knight  so  bold— 

And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 
Fell  as  he  found 
No  spot  of  ground 

That  looked  like  Eldorado. 


ELDORADO. 


And,  as  his  strength 


Failed  him  at  length, 
He  met  a  pilgrim  shadov.-- 

83 


ELDORADO. 

"  Shadow,"  said  he, 
"  Where  can  it  be — 
This  land  of  Eldorado  ?  " 

"  Over  the  Mountains 

Of  the  Moon, 
Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 

Kide,  boldly  ride," 

The  shade  replied, — • 
"  If  you  seek  for  Eldorado  !  " 


A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM. 


TAKE  this  kiss  upon  the  brow  ! 
And,  in  parting  from  you  now, 

Tlm>  much  let  me  avow — 

85 


A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM. 

You  arc  not  wrong,  who  deem 

That  my  days  have  been  a  dream ; 

Yet  if  hope  has  flown  away 

In  a  night,  or  in  a  day, 

In  a  vision,  or  in  none, 

Is  it  therefore  the  less  gone  ? 

A II  that  we  see  or  seem 

Is  but  a  dream  within  a  dream. 

I  stand  amid  the  roar 
Of  a  surf-tormented  shore, 
And  I  hold  within  my  hand 
Grains  of  the  golden  sand — 
How  few  !  yet  how  they  creep 
Through  my  fingers  to  the  deep, 
While  I  weep — while  I  weep ! 
O  God  !  can  I  not  grasp 
Them  with  a  tighter  clasp  ? 
O  God  !  can  I  not  save 
One  from  the  pitiless  wave  ? 
Is  all  that  we  see  or  seem 
But  a  dream  within  a  dream  ? 


THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA. 


Lo  !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  thrum 
In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 


THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA. 

Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst  a'nd  the  best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 

There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 

(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not  !) 

Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 

Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town  ; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently — 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free — 
Up  domes — up  spires — up  kingly  halls — 
Up  fanes — up  Babylon-like  walls — 
Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers — 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 
So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 

88 


That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air. 
While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  tOAvn 
Death  looks  gigantically  down. 


THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves 
Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves  ;  - 
But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 
In  each  idol's  diamond  eye — 
Not  the  gaily-jewelled  dead 
Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed  ; 
For  no  ripples  curl,  alas  ! 
Along  that  wilderness  of  glass — 
No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  he 
Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea — 
No  hearings  hint  that  winds  have  been 
On  seas  less  hideously  serene. 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air  ! 
The  wave — there  is  a  movement  there  ! 
As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 
In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide — 
As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A  void  within  the  filmy  heaven. 
The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow — 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low — 
And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 
Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 


SCENES    FEOM   "POLITIAN;" 


AX  UXPUBLISHED  DRAMA. 


I. 

ROME.— A  Half  in  a  Palace.    ALE**AM>RA  ntuJ.  CASTIGLIOXE. 

ALESSAXDHA. 

Thou  art  sad,  Castiglione. 

93 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

CASTIGLIONE. 

Sad  I-^riiot  I. 

Oh,  I  'm  the  happiest,  happiest  man  in  Home  ! 
A  few  days  more,  thou  kiiowest,  my  Alessandra, 
Will  make  thcc  mine.     Oh,  I  am  very  happy  ! 

ALESSANDRA. 

Methinks  thou  hast  a  singular  way  of  showing 
Thy  happiness  ! — what  ails  thce,  cousin  of  mine  ? 
Why  didst  thou  sigh  so  deeply  ? 

CASTIGLIONE. 

Did  I  sigh? 

I  was  not  conscious  of  it.     It  is  a  fashion, 
A  silly — a  most  silly  fashion  I  have 
When  I  am  very  happy.     Did  I  sigh?  [Sighing, 

ALESSANDRA. 

Thou  didst.     Thou  art  not  well.     Thou  hast  indulged 
T<M»  much  of  late,  and  I  am  vexed  to  sec  it. 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAK" 

I^ate  hours  and  wine,  Castiglione, — these 
Will  ruin  thee  !    thou  art  already  altered — 
Thy  looks  are  haggard — nothing  so  wears  away 
The  constitution  as  late  hours  and  wine. 


CASTIGLIONE 


Nothing,  fair  cousin,  nothing  —  not  even  deep  sorrow- 
Wcars  it  away  like  evil  hours  and  wine. 
I  will  amend. 


ALESSANDRA. 

Do  it !     I  would  have  thee  drop 
Thy  riotous  company,  too — fellows  low  born — 
111  suit  the  like  with  old  Di  Broglio's  heir 
And  Alessandra's  husband. 


CASTIGLIONE. 


I  will  drop  them. 

95 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

ALESSANDBA. 

Thou  wilt — thou  must.  Attend  thou  also  more 
To  thy  dress  and  equipage — they  are  over  plain 
For  thy  lofty  rank  and  fashion — much  depends 
Upon  appearances. 


CA8TIGLIONE. 


I'll  see  to  it. 


ALESSANDBA. 


Then  see  to  it ! — pay  more  attention,  Sir, 
To  a  becoming  carriage — much  thou  wantest 
In  dignity. 


CASTIQLIONE. 


Much,  much,  oh  much  T  w.-int. 
In  proper  dignity. 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN. 


ALESSANDBA  \1iaughti1y]. 
Thou  moekost  me,  sir ! 

97  O 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

CASTIGLIONE  [abstractedly^. 
Sweet,  gentle  Lalage  ! 

ALESSAXPRA. 

Heard  I  aright  ? 

I  speak  to  him — he  speaks  of  Lalage  ! 
Sir  Count !  [Places  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.']  What,  art  thou 

dreaming  ?  he's  not  well  ! 
What  ails  thec,  Sir  ? 

CASTIGLTONE  [starting]. 

Cousin  !    fair  cousin  ! — madam  ! 
I  crave  thy  pardon — indeed  I  am  not  well — 
Your  hand  from  off  my  shoulder,  if  you  please. 
This  air  is  most  oppressive  ! — Madam — the  Duke  ! 

Enter  Di  BROGLIO. 
PI  BROGLTO. 

My  son,  I've  news  for  thee! — hey? — what's  the  matter? 

[Observing  ALERRAXPRA, 

98 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

1'  the  pouts?     Kiss  her,  Castiglioue  !    kiss  her, 
You  dog !    and  make  it  up,  I  say,  this  mmute  ! 
I  've  news  for  you  both.     Politian  is  expected 
Hourly  in  Rome — Politian,  Earl  of  Leicester  ! 
We'll  have  him  at  the  wedding.     'Tis  his  first  visit 
To  the  imperial  city. 

ALESSANDBA. 

What!    Politian 
Of  Britain,  Earl  of  Leicester? 

DI    BROGLIO. 

The  same,  my  love. 

We'll  have  him  at  the  wedding.     A  man  quite  young 
In  years,  but  grey  in  fame.     I  have  not  seen  him, 
But  Rumour  speaks  of  him  as  of  a  prodigy 
Pre-eminent  in  arts,  and  arms,  and  wealth, 
And  high  descent.     We'll  have  him  at  the  wedding. 

ALESSANDBA. 

• 

I  have  heard  much  of  this  Politiau. 

99 


SCENES  FROM  ".POLITIAN. 

Gay,  volatile,  and  giddy — is  he  not  ? 
And  little  given  to  thinking. 


DI  BROGLIO. 

Far  from  it,  love. 

No  branch,  they  say,  of  all  philosophy 
So  deep  abstruse  he  has  not  mastered  it. 
Learned  as  few  are  learned. 


ALESSANDRA. 

'T  is  very  strange  ! 

I  have  known  men  have  seen  Politian 
And  sought  his  company.     They  speak  of  him 
As  of  one  who  entered  madly  into  life, 
Drinking  the  cup  of  pleasure  to  the  dregs. 


CASTIGLIONE. 

Ridiculous  !   "Now,  /  have  seen  Politian, 

And  know  him  well — nor  learned  nor  mirthful  he. 

• 

100 


SCENES  FROM  "  POL1TIAN 

He  is  a  dreamer  and  a  man  shut  out 
From  common  passions. 


DI    BROGLIO. 

Children,  we  disagree. 
Let  us  go  forth  and  taste  the  fragrant  air 
Of  the  garden.     Did  I  dream,  or  did  I  hear 
Politiau  was  a  melancholy  man  ?  [Exeunt. 


II. 


HOME.  —  A  Lady's  apartment,  with  a-  window  open  and  looking  into  a 
garden  .  LALAGE,  in  deep  mourning,  reading  at  a  table  on  which  lie  some 
'books  and  a  hand  mirror.  In  Hie  background  JACINTA  (a  servant  maid) 
leans  carelessly  upon  a  c/iair. 

LALAGK. 


Juciiita  !  is  it  thoir? 


102 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

JACIXTA  [pertly]. 

Yes.  Ma'am,  I'm  here. 

LALAGE. 

I  did  not  know,  .Tacinta,  you  were  in  waiting. 
Sit  down  ! — let  not  my  presence  trouble  you — 
Sit  down  ! — for  T  am  humble,  most  humble.. 

JACINTA  [aside']. 
'T  is  time. 

[JACIXTA  seats  herself  in  a  side-long  manner  upon  the 
chair,  resting  her  elbows  upon  the  back,  and  regard- 
ing her  mistress  with  a  contemptuous  look.  LALAGE 
continues  to  read. 

LALAGE. 

"  It  in  another  climate,  so  he  said, 

Bore  a  bright  golden  flower,  but  not  i'  this  soil !" 

[Pot*M8 — turns  over  somp  leaves,  and  resumes. 

103 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

"  No  lingering  winters  there,  nor  snow,  nor  shower — 

But  Ocean  ever  to  refresh  mankind 

Breathes  the  shrill  spirit  of  the  western  wind." 

Oh,  beautiful  ! — most  beautiful ! — how  like 

To  what  my  fevered  soul  doth  dream  of  Heaven  ! 

O  happy  land  !  \_Pauses.~]  She  died  ! — the  maiden  died  ! 

O  still  more  happy  maiden  who  couldst  die  ! 

Jacinta  ! 


[JACIXTA  returns  no  answer,  and  LALAGE  presently  resumes. 


Again  ! — a  similar  tale 
Told  of  a  beauteous  dame  beyond  the  sea  ! 
Thus  speaketh  one  Ferdinand  in  the  words  of  the  play — 
"  She  died  full  young  " — one  Bossola  answers  him — • 
"  I  think  not  so — her  infelicity 

Seemed  to  have  years  too  many  " — Ah  luckless  lady  ! 
Jacinta  ! 

[Still  no  answer, 

Here  's  a  far  sterner  storv. 
But  like — oh,  very  like  in  its  despair — 

104 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

Of  that  Egyptian  queen,  winning  so  easily 
A  thousand  hearts — losing  at  length  her  own. 
She  died.     Thus  endeth  the  history — and  her  maids 
Lean  over  her  and  weep — two  gentle  maids 
With  gentle  names — Eiros  and  Charmion  ! 
Rainbow  and  Dove  ! Jacinta  ! 


JACINTA  [pettishly]. 

Madam,  what  is  it  ? 

LALAGE. 

Wilt  thou,  my  good  Jacinta,  be  so  kind 
As  go  down  in  the  library  and  bring-  me 
The  Holy  Evangelists  ? 

JACINTA. 

Pshaw  ! 

[Exit. 

105  1> 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

LALAGE. 

If  there  be  balm 

For  the  wounded  spirit  in  Gilead,  it  is  there  ! 
Dew  in  the  night  time  of  my  bitter  trouble 
Will  there  be  found—"  dew  sweeter  far  than  that 
Which  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon  hill." 

Re-enter  JACINTA,  and  throws  a  volume  on  the  table. 

JACINTA. 

There,  Ma'am,  's  the  book.     Indeed  she  is  very  troublesome. 

[Aside. 

LALAGE  [astonished], 

What  didst  thou  say,  Jacinta  ?      Have  I  done  aught 
To  grieve  thec  or  to  vex  thec  ? — I  am  sorry. 
For  thou  hast  served  me  long,  and  ever  been 
Trustworthy  and  respectful. 

[Resumes  her  reading. 

JACTNTA. 

1  can't  believe 
She  has  any  more  jewels— no — no— she  gave  me  all.        [Aside. 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN. 

LALAGE. 

What  didst  thou  say,  Jacinta  ?     Now  I  bethink  me 
Thou  hast  not  spoken  lately  of  thy  wedding. 
How  fares  good  Ugo  ? — and  when  is  it  to  be  ? 
Can  I  do  aught  ? — is  there  no  farther  aid 
Thou  necdest,  Jacinta? 


JACINTA. 

Is  there  no  farther  aid  ! 

That's  meant  for  me.   \_Aside.~]  I'm  sure,  Madam,  you  need  not 
Be  always  throwing  those  jewels  in  my  teeth. 

LALAGE. 

Jewels  !  Jacinta, — now  indeed,  Jcu 
F  thought  not  of  the  jewels. 

JACINTA. 

Oh  !  perhaps  not  ! 
But  then  T  might  have  sworn  it.     After  all, 

107 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

There's  Ugo  says  the  ring  is  only  paste, 

For  he's  sure  the  Count  Castiglione  never 

Would  have  given  a  real  diamond  to  such  as  you ; 

And  at  the  hest  I  'm  certain,  Madam,  you  cannot 

Have  use  for  jewels  now.     But  I  might  have  sworn  it.       [Exit. 

[LALAGE  bursts  into  tears,  and  leans  her  head  upon  the 
table — after  a  short  pause  raises  it. 


LALAGE. 

• 

Poor  Lalage  ! — and  is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Thy  servant  maid  ! — but  courage  ! — 'tis  but  a  viper 

Whom  thou  hast  cherished  to  sting  thee  to  the  soul ! 

[Taking  up  the  mirror, 

Ha !  here  at  least's  a  friend — too  much  a  friend 
In  earlier  days — a  friend  will  not  deceive  thee. 
Fair  mirror  and  true  !  now  tell  me  (for  thou  canst) 
A  tale — a  pretty  tale— and  heed  thou  not 
Though  it  be  rife  with  woe.     It  answers  me. 
It  speaks  of  sunken  eyes,  and  wasted  cheeks, 
And  Beauty  long  deceased — remembers  me 
Of  Joy  departed — Hope,  the  Seraph  Hope. 

108 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

Inurned  and  entombed  ! — now,  in  a  tone 

Low,  sad,  and  solemn,  but  most  audible, 

"Whispers  of  early  grave  untimely  yawning* 

For  ruined  maid.     Fair  mirror  and  true  ! — thou  liest  not ! 

Thou  hast  no  end  to  gain — no  heart  to  break — 

Castiglione  lied  who  said  he  loved 

Thou  true— he  false  !— false  !— false  ! 

[While  she  speaks,  a  MONK  enters  her  apartment,  and 
approaches  unobserved. 

MONK. 

Refuge  thou  hast, 

Sweet  daughter  !  in  Heaven.     Think  of  eternal  things  ; 
Give  up  thy  soul  to  penitence,  and  pray  ! 

LALAGE •  [arising  hurriedly"]. 

I  cannot  pray  ! — My  soul  is  at  war  with  God  ! 

The  frightful  sounds  of  merriment  below 

Disturb  my  senses — go  !  I  cannot  pray — 

The  sweet  airs  from  the  garden  worry  me  ! 

Thy  presence  grieves  me — go  ! — thy  priestly  raiment 

Fills  me  with  dread — thy  ebony  crucifix 

With  horror  and  awe  ! 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 


.MONK. 


Think  of  thy  precious  soul 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

LALAGE. 

Think  of  my  early  days ! — think  of  my  father 
And  mother  in  heaven  !  think  of  our  quiet  home, 
And  the  rivulet  that  ran  before  the  door  ! 
Think  of  my  little  sisters  ! — think  of  them  ! 
And  think  of  me  ! — think  of  my  trusting  love 
And  confidence — his  vows — my  ruin — think — think 

Of  my  unspeakable  misery  ! begone  ! 

Yet  stay !  yet  stay  ! — what  was  it  thou  saidst  of  prayer 
And  penitence  ?     Didst  thou  not  speak  of  faith 
And  vows  before  the  Tlu-one  ? 


MONK, 


I  did. 


LALAGE. 

'Tis.wcll. 

There  is  a  vow  were  fitting  should  be  made — 
A  sacred  vow,  imperative,  and  urgent, 
A  solemn  vow  ! 

in 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN.' 


MONK. 


Daughter,  this  zeal  is  well ! 


LALAGE. 

Father,  this  zeal  is  anything  but  well ! 
Hast  thou  a  crucifix  fit  for  this  thing  ? 
A  crucifix  whereon  to  register 
This  sacred  vow  ? 

[He  hands  her  his  own. 

Not  that — Oh  !  no  ! — no  ! — no  ! 

[Shuddering. 

Not  that !    Not  that ! — I  tell  thee,  holy  man, 
Thy  raiments  and  thy  ebony  cross  affright  me  ! 
Stand  back  !  I  have  a  crucifix  myself, — 
/  have  a  crucifix  !     Methinks  'twere  fitting  - 
The  deed — the  vow — the  symbol  of  the  deed— 
And  the  deed's  register  should  tally,  father  ! 

[Draws  a  cross-handled  dagger,  and  raises  it  on  high. 

Behold  the  cross  wherewith  a  vow  like  mine 
Is  written  in  heaven  ! 

112 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

MONK. 

Thy  words  are  madness,  daughter, 
And  speak  a  purpose  unholy — thy  lips  are  livid — 
Thine  eyes  are  wild — tempt  not  the  wrath  divine  ! 
Pause  ere  too  late ! — oh  be  not — be  not  rash  ! 
Swear  not  the  oath — oh  swear  it  not  ! 


LALAGE. 


Tis  sworn! 


113 


III. 

A  n  A  partment  in  a  Palace.    POLITIAN  and  BALDAZZAR. 
BALDAZZAB. 

Arouse  thee  now,  Politian  ! 

114 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

Thou  must  not — nay  indeed,  indeed,  thou  shalt  not 
Give  way  unto  these  humours.     Be  thyself ! 
Shake  off  the  idle  fancies  that  beset  thee, 
And  live,  for  now  thou  diest ! 


POLITIAN. 

Not  so,  Baldazzar ! 
Surely  I  live. 


BALDAZZAR. 

Politian,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To  see  thee  thus. 


POLITIAN. 

Baldazzar,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To  give  thee  cause  for  grief,  my  honoured  friend. 
Command  me,  Sir  !  what  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  ? 
At  thy  behest  I  will  shake  off  that  nature 
Which  from  my  forefathers  I  did  inherit, 

115 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

Which  with  my  mother's  milk  I  did  imbibe, 
And  be  no  more  Politian,  but  some  other. 
Command  me,  Sir  ! 


BALDAZZAR. 

To  the  field  then— to  the  field- 
To  the  senate  or  the  field. 


POLITIAN. 

Alas !  alas ! 

There  is  an  imp  would  follow  me  even  there  ! 
There  is  an  imp  hath  followed  me  even  there ! 
There  is what  voice  was  that  ? 


BALDAZZAB. 

I  heard  it  not. 
I  heard  not  any  voice  except  thine  own, 

116 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN. 


And  the  echo  of  thine  own. 


POLITIAX. 


Then  I  but  dreamed. 


BALDAZZAB. 


Give  not  thy  soul  to  dreams  :  the  camp— the  court 
Befit  thee — Fame  awaits  thee — Glory  calls — 
And  her  the  trumpet-tongued  thou  wilt  not  hear 
In  hearkening  to  imaginary  sounds 
And  phantom  voices. 


POLITIAN. 


It  is  a  phantom  voice ! 
Didst  thou  not  hear  it  then  ? 


BALDAZZAR. 

I  heard  it  not. 

117 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

POLITIAN. 

Thou  heardst  it  not ! Baldazzar,  speak  no  more 

To  me,  Politian,  of  thy  camps  and  courts. 

Oh !  I  am  sick,  sick,  sick,  even  unto  death, 

Of  the  hollow  and  high-sounding  vanities 

Of  the  populous  Earth !     Bear  with  me  yet  awhile  ! 

We  have  been  boys  together — school-fellows — 

And  now  are  friends — yet  shall  not  be  so  long — 

For  in  the  eternal  city  thou  shalt  da  me 

A  kind  and  gentle  office,  and  a  Power — 

A  Power  august,  benignant  and  supreme — 

Shall  then  absolve  thee  of  all  farther  duties 

Unto  thy  friend. 


BALDAZZAB. 

Thou  speakest  a  fearful  riddle ; 
I  will  not  understand. 


POLITIAN. 

Yet  now  as  Fate 
Approaches,  and  the  Hours  are  breathing  low, 

118 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

The  sands  of  Time  are  changed  to  golden  grains, 

And  dazzle  me,  Baldazzar.     Alas  !  alas  ! 

I  cannot  die,  having  within  my  heart 

So  keen  a  relish  for  the  beautiful 

As  hath  been  kindled  within  it.     Methinks  the  air 

Is  balmier  now  than  it  was  wont  to  be — 

Rich  melodies  are  floating  in  the  winds — 

A  rarer  loveliness  bedecks  the  earth — 

And  with  a  holier  lustre  the  quiet  moon 

Sitteth  in  heaven. — Hist !  hist !  thou  canst  not  say 

Thou  hearest  not  now,  Baldazzar  ? 


BALDAZZAR. 

Indeed  I  hear  not. 

POLITIAN. 

Not  hear  it ! — listen  now — listen  ! — the  faintest  sound, 
And  yet  the  sweetest  that  ear  ever  heard  ! 
A  lady's  voice  ! — and  sorrow  in  the  tone  ! 
Baldazzar,  it  oppresses  me  like  a  spell ! 
Again  ! — again ! — how  solemnly  it  falls 
Into  my  heart  of  hearts  !  that  eloquent  voice 
Surely  I  never  heard — yet  it  were  well 

1)9 


SCENES  FKOM  "  POLITIAN." 


H  HAPRAL  Sc 


Had  I  but  heard  it  with  its  thrilling  tones 
In  earlier  days ! 

120 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 


BALDAZZAR. 


I  myself  hear  it  now. 

Be  still !— the  voice,  if  I  mistake  not  greatly, 
Proceeds  from  yonder  lattice — which  you  may  see 
Very  plainly  through  the  window — it  belongs, 
Does  it  not  ?  unto  this  palace  of  the  Duke. 
The  singer  is  undoubtedly  beneath 
The  roof  of  his  Excellency — and  perhaps 
Is  even  that  Alessandra  of  whom  he  spoke 
As  the  betrothed  of  Castiglione, 
His  son  and  heir. 


POLITIAX. 

Be  still ! — it  comes  again  ! 

Voice  [very  faintly}. 

And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus, 
Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long, 
In  wealth  and  woe  among  ? 

121 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITJAN/1 

And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus? 

Say  nay — say  nay  ! 


BALDAZZAH. 

The  song  is  English,  an<l  T  oft  have  heard  it 
in  merry  England — never  so  plaintively — 
Hist  !  hist  !  it  comes  again  ! 

Voice  [more  louJh/]. 

•  Is  it  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus, 
\Vho  hath  loved  thee  so  long, 
Tn  wealth  and  woe  among? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
A  s  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 

Say  nay — say  nay  !' 


BALDAZZAll. 

Tis  hushed,  and  all  is  still 
122 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAX. 


POLITIAN. 


All  is  not  still. 


BALDAZZAR. 


Let  us  go  down. 


POLITIAN. 


Go  down,  Baldazzar.  go  ! 


BALDAZZAB. 


The  hour  is  growing  late — the  Duke  awaits  us,- 
Thy  presence  is  expected  in  the  hall 
Below.     What  ails  thee,  Earl  Politiau  ? 


fo/tv  [distinctly']. 


Who  hath  luvt-il  tlicc  >•>  long, 

123 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN 

In  wealth  and  woe  among, 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong  ? 
Say  nay— say  nay  !  " 


BALDAZZAR. 


Let  us  descend  ! — 'tis  time.     Politian,  give 
These  fancies  to  the  wind.     Kemember,  pray. 
Your  bearing  lately  savoured  much  of  rudeness 
Unto  the  Duke.     Arouse  thee !  and  remember  ! 


POLITIAN. 


Kemember  ?  I  do.     Lead  on  !  I  do  remember. 

[Going, 

Let  us  descend.     Believe  me,  I  would  give, 
Freely  would  give,  the  broad  lands  of  my  earldom 
To  look  upon  the  face  hidden  by  yon  lattice— 
"  To  gaze  upon  that  veiled  face,  and  hear 
Once  more  that  silent  tongue." 

124 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

BALDAZZAIJ. 

Let  me  beg  you,  sir, 

Descend  with  me — the  Duke  may  Le  offended. 
Let  us  go  down,  I  pray  you. 

* 

Voice  \loudly\. 
"  Say  nay  ! — say  nay  !" 


POLITIAN  [aside]. 

Tis  strange  ! — 'tis  very  strange — methought  the  voice 
Chimed  in  with  my  desires  and  bade  me  stay  ! 

[Approaching  the  window. 

Sweet  voice !  I  heed  thee,  and  will  surely  stay. 
Now  be  this  Fancy,  by  Heaven,  or  be  it  Fate, 
Still  will  I  not  descend.  Baldazzar,  make 

Apology  unto  the  Duke  for  me  ; 

* 
I  go  not  down  to-night. 

125 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

BALDAZZAR. 

Your  lordship's  pleasure 
Shall  be  attended  to.     Good  night,  Politian. 

• 

POLITIAN. 

Good  night,  my  friend,  good  night. 


IV. 

The  Gardens  of  a  Palace— Moonlight.     LALAGE  and  POLITIAX. 

LALAGE. 

And  dost  thou  speak  of  love 

To  me,  Politian  ? — dost  thou  speak  of  love 

127 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN. ' 

To  Lalage  ? — ah  woe — ah  woe  is  me  ! 

This  mockery  is  most  cruel — most  cruel  indeed  ! 

POLITIAN. 

Weep  not !  oh,  sob  not  thus  ! — thy  bitter  tears 

Will  madden  me.     Oh  mourn  not,  Lalage — 

Be  comforted  !     I  know — I  know  it  all, 

And  still  I  speak  of  love.     Look  at  me,  brightest, 

And  beautiful  Lalage  !  — turn  here  thine  eyes  ! 

Thou  askest  me  if  I  could  speak  of  love, 

Knowing  what  I  know,  and  seeing  what  I  have  seen. 

Thou  askest  me  that — and  thus  I  answer  thee — 

Thus  on  my  bended  knee  I  answer  thee. 

\_KneeUny. 

Sweet  Lalage,  I  love  thee — love  thee — love  thee; 
Thro'  good  and  ill — thro'  weal  and  woe  I  love  thee. 
Not  mother,  with  her  first-born  on  her  knee, 
Thrills  with  intenser  love  than  I  for  thee. 
Not  on  God's  altar,  in  any  time  or  clime, 
Burned  there  a  holier  fire  than  burneth  now 
Within  my  spirit  for  thee.     And  do  I  love  ? 

[Arising. 

Even  for  thy  woes  I  love  thee — even  for  thy  woes — 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  woes. 

128 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

LALAGE. 

Alas,  proud  Earl, 

Thou  dost  forget  thyself,  remembering  me ! 
How,  in  thy  father's  halls,  among  the  maidens 
Pure  and  reproachless  of  thy  princely  line, 
Could  the  dishonoured  Lalage  abide  ? 
Thy  wife,  and  with  a  tainted  memory — 
My  seared  and  blighted  name,  now  would  it  tally 
With  the  ancestral  honours  of  thy  house, 
And  with  thy  glory  ? 


POLITIAX. 

Speak  not  to  me  of  glory ! 
I  hate — I  loathe  the  name  ;  I  do  abhor 
The  unsatisfactory  and  ideal  thing. 
Art  thou  not  Lalage,  and  I  Politian  ? 
Do  I  not  love — art  thou  not  beautiful — 
"What  need  we  more  ?     Ha  !  glory  ! — now  speak  not  of  it. 
By  all  I  hold  most  sacred  and  most  solemn — 
By  all  my  wishes  now — my  fears  hereafter — 
By  all  I  scorn  on  earth  and  hope  in  heaven — 
There  is  no  deed  I  would  more  glory  in, 

129  S 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

Than  in  thy  cause  to  scoff  at  this  same  glory 

And  trample  it  under  foot.     What  matters  it — 

What  matters  it,  my  fairest,  and  my  best, 

That  we  go  down  unhonoured  and  forgotten 

Into  the  dust — so  we  descend  together. 

Descend  together — and  then — and  then  perchance 

ULLAGE. 

Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian  ? 

POLITIAN. 

And  then  perchance 
Arise  together,  Lalage,  and  roam 
The  starry  and  quiet  dwellings  of  the  blest, 
And  still 

LALAGE. 

Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian  ? 


POLITIAN. 

And  still  together — toe/ether. 

130 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

LALAGE. 

Now,  Earl  of  Leicester  ! 
Thou  lovest  me,  and  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  feel  thou  lovest  me  truly. 

POLITIAN. 

Oh,  Lalage! 

[Throwing  himself  upon  his  knee. 
And  lovest  thou  me  ? 

LALAGE. 

Hist !  hush  !  within  the  gloom 
Of  yonder  trees  methought  a  figure  pass'd — 
A  spectral  figure,  solemn,  and  slow,  and  noiseless: — 
Like  the  grim  shadow  Conscience,  solemn  and  noiseless. 

[  Walks  across  and  returns. 
I  was  mistaken — 't  was  but  a  giant  bough 
Stirred  by  the  autumn  wind.     Politian  ! 

POLITIAN. 

My  Lalage — my  love  !  why  art  thou  moved  ? 

Why  dost  thou  turn  so  pale  ?     Not  Conscience'  self, 

Far  less  a  shadow  which  thou  likenest  to  it, 

131 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN.' 


Should  shake  the  firm  spirit  thus.     But  the  night  wind 
Is  chilly — and  these  melancholy  boughs 
Throw  over  all  things  a  gloom. 

132 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 
LALAGE. 

Politian  ! 

Thou  speakest  to  me  of  love.     Knowest  thou  the  land 
With  which  all  tongues  are  busy — a  land  new  found — 
Miraculously  found  by  one  of  Genoa — 
A  thousand  leagues  within  the  golden  west  ? 
A  fairy  land  of  flowers,  and  fruit,  and  sunshine, 
And  crystal  lakes,  and  over-arching  forests, 
And  mountains,  around  whose  towering  summits  the  winds 
Of  Heaven  untrammelled  flow — which  air  to  breathe 
Is  Happiness  now,  and  will  be  Freedom  hereafter 
In  days  that  are  to  come  ? 


POLITIAN. 

O,  wilt  thou — wilt  thou 
Fly  to  that  Paradise — my  Lalage,  wilt  thou 
Fly  thither  with  me?     There  Care  shall  be  forgotten, 
And  Sorrow  shall  be  no  more,  and  Eros  be  all. 
And  life  shall  then  be  mine,  for  I  will  live 
For  thee,  and  in  thine  eyes — and  thou  shalt  be 
No  more  a  mourner — but  the  radiant  Joys 
Shall  wait  upon  thee,  and  the  angel  Hope 

133 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

Attend  thee  ever ;  and  I  will  kneel  to  thee 
And  worship  thee,  and  call  thee  my  beloved, 
My  own,  my  beautiful,  my  love,  my  wife, 
My  all ; — oh,  wilt  thou — wilt  thou,  Lalage, 
Fly  thither  with  me  ? 

LALAGE. 

A  deed  is  to  be  done — 
Castiglione  lives  ! 

POLITIAN. 

And  he  shall  die  ! 

[Exit. 

LALAGE  [after  a  pause]. 

And — he — shall — die  ! alas  ! 

Castiglione  die  ?     "Who  spoke  the  words  ? 
Where  am  I  ? — what  was  it  he  said  ? — Folitian  ! 
Thou  art  not  gone — thou  art  not  gone,  Politian  ! 
I  feel  thou  art  not  gone — yet  dare  not  look, 
Lest  I  behold  thee  not ;  thou  couldst  not  go 
With  those  words  upon  thy  lips — O,  speak  to  me  ! 
And  let  me  hear  thy  voice — one  word — one  word, 

134 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

To  say  thou  art  not  gone, — one  little  sentence, 

To  say  how  thou  dost  scorn — how  thou  dost  hate 

My  womanly  weakness.     Ha  !  ha !  thou  art  not  gone — 

0  speak  to  me  !     I  knew  thou  wouldst  not  go  ! 

1  knew  thou  wouldst  not,  couldst  not,  durst  not  go. 
Villain,  thou  art  not  gone — thou  mockest  me  ! 

And  thus  I  clutch  thee — thus  ! He  is  gone,  he  is  gone 

Gone — gone.     Where  am  I  ? 'tis  well — 'tis  very  well  ! 

So  that  the  blade  be  keen — the  blow  be  sure, 
'Tis  well,  'tis  very  well — alas  !  alas  ! 


V. 

The  Suburbs.     POLITIAN  alone. 
POLTTIAN. 

This  weakness  grows  upon  me.     I  am  faint, 
And  much  I  fear  me  ill — it  will  not  do 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

To  die  ere  I  have  lived  ! — Stay — stay  thy  hand, 
O  Azrael,  yet  awhile  ! — Prince  of  the  Powers 
Of  Darkness  and  the  Tomb,  O  pity  me  ! 
O  pity  me !  let  me  not  perish  now, 
In  the  budding  of  my  Paradisal  Hope  ! 
Give  me  to  live  yet — yet  a  little  while : 
'Tis  I  who  pray  for  life — I  who  so  late 
Demanded  but  to  die  ! — what  sayeth  the  Count  ? 


Enter  BALDAZZAR. 

BALDAZZAR. 

That,  knowing  no  cause  of  quarrel  or  of  feud 
Between  the  Earl  Politian  and  himself, 
He  doth  decline  your  cartel. 


POLITIAN. 

What  didst  thou  say  ? 

"What  answer  was  it  you  brought  me,  good  Baldazzar  ? 
With  what  excessive  fragrance  the  zephyr  comes 
Laden  from  yonder  bowers  ! — a  fairer  day, 
Or  one  more  worthy  Italy,  methinks 
No  mortal  eyes  have  seen  ! — what  said  the  Count  ? 

137  T 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

BALDAZZAB. 

That  he,  Castiglione,  not  being  aware 

Of  any  feud  existing,  or  any  cause 

Of  quarrel  between  your  lordship  and  himself, 

Cannot  accept  the  challenge. 

POLITIAN. 

It  is  most  true — 

All  this  is  very  true.     When  saw  you,  Sir, 
When  saw  you  now,  Baldazzar,  in  the  frigid 
Uugenial  Britain  which  we  left  so  lately, 
A  heaven  so  calm  as  this — so  utterly  free 
From  the  evil  taint  of  clouds  ? — and  he  did  say  ? 

BALDAZZAR. 

No  more,  ray  Lord,  than  I  have  told  you,  Sir 
The  Count  Castiglione  will  not  fight, 
Having  no  cause  for  quarrel. 

POLITIAN. 

Now  this  is  true — 
All  very  true.     Thou  art  my  friend,  Baldazzar, 

138 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAK" 

And  I  have  not  forgotten  it — thou  'It  do  me 
A  piece  of  service ;  wilt  thou  go  hack  and  say 
Unto  this  man,  that  I,  the  Earl  of  Leicester, 
Hold  him  a  villain  ? — thus  much,  I  pr'ythee,  say 
Unto  the  Count — it  is  exceeding  just 
He  should  have  cause  for  quarrel. 


BALDAZZAB. 


My  lord  ! — my  friend  !- 


POLITIAN  [aside}. 

'Tis  he — he  comes  himself !    [aloud~\  thou  reasonest  well. 
I  know  what  thou  wouldst  say — not  send  the  message — 
Well ! — I  will  think  of  it — I  will  not  send  it. 
Now  pr'ythee,  leave  me — hither  doth  come  a  person 
With  whom  affairs  of  a  most  private  nature 
I  would  adjust. 


BALDAZZAB. 

I  go — to-morrow  we  meet, 
Do  we  not? — at  the  Vatican. 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN.1 


POLITIAN. 


At  the  Vatican. 

{Exit  BALDAZZAR. 


Enter  CASTIGLIONE. 


CASTIOLIONE. 


The  Earl  of  Leicester  here  ! 


POLITIAN. 

I  am  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  and  thou  seest, 
Dost  thou  not  ?  that  I  am  here. 


CASTIGLIOKE. 

My  Lord,  some  strange, 
Some  singular  mistake — misunderstanding — 
Hath  without  doubt  arisen :  thou  hast  been  urged 
Thereby,  in  heat  of  anger,  to  address 
Some  words  most  unaccountable,  in  writing, 

140 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

To  me,  Castiglione  ;  the  bearer  being 

Baldazzar,  Duke  of  Surrey.     I  am  aware 

Of  nothing  which  might  warrant  thee  in  this  thing, 

Having  given  thee  no  offence.     Ha ! — am  I  right  ? 

'T  was  a  mistake  ? — undoubtedly — we  all 

Do  err  at  times. 


POLITIAN. 


Draw,  villain,  and  prate  no  more  ! 


CASTIGLIONE. 

Ha  ! — draw  ? — and  villain  ?  have  at  thee  then  at  once, 
Proud  Earl ! 

[Draws. 


POLITIAN  [drawing'}. 

Thus  to  the  expiatory  tomb, 
Untimely  sepulchre,  I  do  devote  thee 
In  the  name  of  Lalage  ! 

141 


SCENES  FEOM  "POLITIAN." 

CASTIGLIONE    [letting  fall  his   sword   and    recoiling   to    the 
extremity  of  the  stage}. 

Of  Lalage  ! 

Hold  off — thy  sacred  hand  ! — avaunt,  I  say  ! 
Avaiint — I  will  not  fight  thee — indeed  I  dare  not. 


POLITIAN. 

Thou  wilt  not  fight  with  me  didst  say,  Sir  Count  ? 
Shall  I  he  baffled  thus?— now  this  is  well ; 
Didst  say  thou  darest  not  ?     Ha  ! 

CASTIGLIONE. 

I  dare  not — dare  not — 
Hold  off  thy  hand — with  that  heloved  name 
So  fresh  upon  thy  lips  I  will  not  fight  thee — 
I  cannot— dare  not. 

POLITIAN. 

Now  hy  my  halidom 
I  do  believe  thee  ! — coward,  I  do  believe  thee ! 

142 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAK" 


CASTIGLIONE. 

Ha ! — coward ! — this  may  not  be ! 

[Clutches  his  sword,  and  staggers  towards  POLITIAN,  but  his 
purpose  is  changed  before  reaching  him,  and  he  falls 
upon  his  knee  at  the  feet  of  the  Earl. 

Alas !  my  Lord, 

It  is — it  is — most  true.     In  such  a  cause 
I  am  the  veriest  coward.     O  pity  me  ! 


POLITIAN  [greatly  softened]. 
Alas  ! — I  do — indeed  I  pity  thee. 

CASTIGLIONE. 

And  Lalage 

POLITIAN. 

Scoundrel  ! — arise  and  die  ! 

143 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 


CASTIGLIONE. 

It  needeth  not  be — thus — thus — O  let  me  die 

Thus  on  my  bended  knee.     It  were  most  fitting 

That  in  this  deep  humiliation  I  perish. 

For  in  the  fight  I  will  not  raise  a  hand 

Against  thee,  Earl  of  Leicester.     Strike  thou  home — 

[Baring  his  bosom. 

Here  is  no  let  or  hindrance  to  thy  weapon — 
Strike  home.     I  will  not  fight  thee. 


POLITIAN. 

Now  s'Death  and  Hell  ! 

Am  I  not — am  I  not  sorely — grievously  tempted 
To  take  thee  at  thy  word  ?     But  mark  me,  Sir, 
Think  not  to  fly  me  thus.     Do  thou  prepare 
For  public  insult  in  the  streets — before 
The  eyes  of  the  citizens.     I'll  follow  thee— 
Like  an  avenging  spirit  I'll  follow  thee 
Even  unto  death.     Before  those  whom  thou  lovest — 
Before  all  Eome  I'll  taunt  thee,  villain-, — I'll  taunt  thee, 

144 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN." 

Dost  hear  ?  with  cowardice — thou  wilt  not  fight  me  ? 
Thou  liest !  thou  shalt  !  {Exit. 


CASTIGLIONE. 

Now  this  indeed  is  just ! 
Most  righteous,  and  most  just,  avenging  He'aven  ! 


145 


POEMS   WRITTEN  IN   YOUTH. 


Private  reasons — some  of  which  have  reference  to  the  sin  of  plagiarism, 
and  others  to  the  date  of  Tennyson's  first  poems — have  induced  me,  after 
some  hesitation,  to  republish  these,  the  crude  compositions  of  my  earliest 
boyhood.  They  are  printed  verbatim — without  alteration  from  the  original 
edition — the  date  of  which  is  too  remote  to  be  judiciously  acknowledged. 

E.  A.  P. 


AL    AAKAAF.' 

PAET  I. 

O  !  NOTHING  earthly  save  the  ray 

(Thrown  back  from  flowers)  of  Beauty's  eye, 

149 


AL  AARAAF. 

As  in  those  gardens  where  the  day 
Springs  from  the  gems  of  Circassy — 
O  !  nothing  earthly  save  the  thrill 
Of  melody  in  woodland  rill — 
Or  (music  of  the  passion-hearted) 
Joy's  voice  so  peacefully  departed 
That,  like  the  murmur  in  the  shell, 
Its  echo  dwelleth  and  will  dwell — 
Oh,  nothing  of  the  dross  of  ours — 
Yet  all  the  beauty — all  the  flowers 
That  list  our  Love,  and  deck  our  bowers — 
Adorn  yon  world  afar,  afar — 
The  wandering  star. 

'T  was  a  sweet  time  for  Nesace — for  there 
Her  world  lay  lolling  on  the  golden  air, 
Near  four  bright  suns — a  temporary  rest — 
An  oasis  in  desert  of  the  blest. 
Away — away — 'mid  seas  of  rays  that  roll 
Empyrean  splendour  o'er  th'  unchained  soul — 
The  soul  that  scares  (the  billows  are  so  dense) 
Can  struggle  to  its  destined  eminence — 
To  distant  spheres,  from  time  to  time,  she  rode, 
And  late  to  ours,  the  favoured  one  of  God — 
But,  now,  the  ruler  of  an  anchored  realm, 

150 


AL  AARAAF. 

She  throws  aside  the  sceptre — leaves  the  helm, 
And,  amid  incense  and  high  spiritual  hymns, 
Laves  in  quadruple  light  her  angel  limhs. 

Now  happiest,  loveliest  in  yon  lovely  Earth, 
Whence  sprang  the  "  Idea  of  Beauty  "  into  birth, 
(Falling  in  wreaths  thro'  many  a  startled  star, 
Like  woman's  hair  'mid  pearls,  until,  afar, 
It  lit  on  hills  Achaian,  and  there  dwelt) 
She  looked  into  Infinity — and  knelt. 
Rich  clouds,  for  canopies,  about  her  curled — 
Fit  emblems  of  the  model  of  her  world — 
Seen  but  in  beauty — not  impeding  sight 
Of  other  beauty  glittering  thro'  the  light — 
A  wreath  that  twined  each  starry  form  around, 
And  all  the  opaled  air  in  colour  bound. 

All  hurriedly  she  knelt  upon  a  bed 
Of  flowers :  of  lilies  such  as  reared  the  head 
On  the  fair  Capo  Deucato,b  and  sprang 
So  eagerly  around  about  to  hang 

Upon  the  flying  footsteps  of deep  pride — 

Of  herc  who  loved  a  mortal — and  so  died. 
The  Sephalica,  budding  with  young  bees, 
Upreared  its  purple  stem  around  her  knees  : 

151 


AL  AARAAF. 


And  gemmy  flower/  of  Trebizond  misnamed — 
Inmate  of  highest  stars,  where  erst  it  shamed 


All  other  loveliness  :  its  honied  dew 

(The  fabled  nectar  that  the  heathen  knew). 


152 


AL  AARAAF. 

Deliriously  sweet,  was  dropp'd  from  heaven, 

And  fell  on  gardens  of  the  unforgiven 

In  Trebizond — and  on  a  sunny  flower 

So  like  its  own  above  that,  to  this  horn-, 

It  still  remaineth,  torturing  the  bee 

With  madness,  and  unwonted  reverie  : 

In  heaven,  and  all  its  environs,  the  leaf 

And  blossom  of  the  fairy  plant,  in  grief 

Disconsolate  linger — grief  that  hangs  her  head, 

Repenting  follies  that  full  long  have  fled, 

Heaving  her  white  breast  to  the  balmy  air, 

Like  guilty  beauty,  chastened,  and  more  fair : 

Nyctanthes  too,  as  sacred  as  the  light 

She  fears  to  perfume,  perfuming  the  night : 

And  Clytia6  pondering  between  many  a  sun, 

While  pettish  tears  adown  her  petals  run  : 

And  that  aspiring  flower f  that  sprang  on  Earth — 

And  died,  ere  scarce  exalted  into  birth, 

Bui-sting  its  odorous  heart  in  spirit  to  wing 

Its  way  to  heaven,  from  garden  of  a  king : 

And  Yalisnerian  lotus g  thither  flown 

From  struggling  with  the  waters  of  the  Ehone : 

And  thy  most  lovely  purple  perfume, h  Zante  ! 

Isola  d'oro  ! — Fior  cli  Levante  ! 

And  the  Nelumbo  bud  that  floats  for  ever ; 

153  X 


AL  AARAAF. 

With  Indian  Cupid1  down  the  holy  river — 

Fair  flowers,  and  fairy  !  to  whose  care  is  given 

To  beark  the  Goddess'  song,  in  odours,  up  to  heaven 


PIRIT  !  that  dwellest  where, 

In  the  deep  sky, 
The  terrible  and  fair 

In  beauty  vie ! 
Beyond  the  line  of  blue — 

The  boundary  of  the  star 
Which  turneth  at  the  view 

Of  thy  barrier  and  thy  bar — 
Of  the  barrier  overgone 

By  the  comets  who  were  cast 
From  their  pride,  and  from  their  throne 

To  be  drudges  till  the  last — 
To  be  carriers  of  fire 

(The  red  fire  of  their  heart) 
With  speed  that  may  not  tire 

And  with  pain  that  shall  not  part — • 
Who  livest — that  we  know — 

In  Eternity — we  feel — 
But  the  shadow  of  whose  brow 

What  spirit  shall  reveal  ? 
Tho'  the  beings  whom  thy  Ncs.-icc, 

154 


AL  AARAAF. 

Thy  messenger  hath  known, 
Have  dreamed  for  thy  Infinity 

A  model1  of  their  own — 
Thy  will  is  done,  O  God ! 

The  star  hath  ridden  high 
Thro'  many  a  tempest,  but  she  rode 

Beneath  thy  burning  eye  ; 
And  here,  in  thought,  to  thee — 

In  thought  that  can  alone 
Ascend  thy  empire  and  so  be 

A  partner  of  thy  throne — 
By  winged  Fantasy,™ 

My  embassy  is  given, 
Till  secrecy  shall  knowledge  be 

In  the  environs  of  Heaven." 

She  ceased — and  buried  then  her  burning  cheek 

Abashed,  amid  the  lilies  there,  to  seek 

A  shelter  from  the  fervour  of  His  eye ; 

For  the  stars  trembled  at  the  Deity. 

She  stirred  not — breathed  not — for  a  voice  was  there 

How  solemnly  pervading  the  calm  air  ! 

A  sound  of  silence  on  the  startled  ear 

Which  dreamy  poets  name  "  the  music  of  the  sphere." 

Ours  is  a  world  of  words :  Quiet  we  call 

155 


AL  AARAAF. 

"  Silence" — which  is  the  merest  word  of  all.  * 
All  Nature  speaks,  and  e'en  ideal  things 
Flap  shadowy  sounds  from  visionary  wings — 
But  ah !  not  so  when,  thus,  in  realms  on  high 
The  eternal  voice  of  God  is  passing  by, 
And  the  red  winds  are  withering  in  the  sky ! 

"  What  tho'  in  worlds  which  sightless"  cycles  run, 
Linked  to  a  little  system,  and  one  sun — 
Where  all  my  love  is  folly,  and  the  crowd 
Still  think  my  terrors  but  the  thunder  cloud, 
The  storm,  the  earthquake,  and  the  ocean- wrath — 
(Ah !  will  they  cross  me  in  my  angrier  path  ?) 
What  tho'  in  worlds  which  own  a  single  sun 
The  sands  of  Time  grow  dimmer  as  they  run, 
Yet  thine  is  my  resplendency,  so  given 
To  bear  my  secrets  thro'  the  upper  heaven. 
Leave  tenantless  thy  crystal  home,  and  fly, 
With  all  thy  train,  athwart  the  moony  sky — 
Apart — like  fire-flies0  in  Sicilian  night, 
And  wing  to  other  worlds  another  light ! 
Divulge  the  secrets  of  thy  embassy 
To  the  proud  orbs  that  twinkle — and  so  be 
To  ev'ry  heart  a  barrier  and  a  ban 
Lest  the  stars  totter  in  the  guilt  of  man  !" 

156 


AL  AARAAF. 


Up  rose  the  maiden  in  the  yellow  night, 
The  single-mooned  eve  ! — on  Earth  we  plight 

157 


AL  AARAAF. 

Our  faith  to  one  love — and  one  moon  adore — 
The  birth-place  of  young  Beauty  had  no  more. 
As  sprang  that  yellow  star  from  downy  hours, 
Up  rose  the  maiden  from  her  shrine  of  flowers, 
And  bent  o'er  sheeny  mountain  and  dim  plain 
Her  way — but  left  not  yet  her  Therasseanp  reign. 


-— 


PAUT    U. 


HIGH  on  a  mountain  of  enamelled  head- 
Such  as  the  drowsy  shepherd  on  his  bed 
Of  giant  pasturage  lying  at  his  ease, 

159 


AL  AARAAF. 

Kaising  his  heavy  eyelid,  starts  and  sees 

With  many  a  muttered  "  hope  to  be  forgiven" 

What  time  the  moon  is  quadrated  in  heaven — 

Of  rosy  head,  that  towering  far  away 

Into  the  sunlit  ether,  caught  the  ray 

Of  sunken  suns  at  eve — at  noon  of  night, 

While  the  moon  danced  with  the  fair  stranger  light- 

Upreared  upon  such  height  arose  a  pile 

Of  gorgeous  columns  on  th'  unhurthened  air, 

Flashing  from  Parian  marble  that  twin  smile 

Far  down  upon  the  wave  that  sparkled  there, 

And  nursled  the  young  mountain  in  its  lair. 

Of  molten  stars q  their  pavement,  such  as  fall 

Thro'  the  ebon  air,  besilvering  the  pall 

Of  their  own  dissolution,  while  they  die — 

Adorning  then  the  dwellings  of  the  sky. 

A  dome,  by  linked  light  from  heaven  let  down, 

Sat  gently  on  these  columns  as  a  crown- — 

A  window  of  one  circular  diamond,  there, 

Looked  out  above  into  the  purple  air, 

And  rays  from  God  shot  down  that  meteor  chain 

And  hallowed  all  the  beauty  twice  again, 

Save  when,  between  th'  Empyrean  and  that  ring, 

Some  eager  spirit  flapped  his  dusky  wing. 

But  on  the  pillars  seraph  eyes  have  seen 

160 


AL  AARAAF. 

The  dimness  of  this  world :  that  greyish  green 
That  Nature  loves  the  best  for  Beauty's  grave 
Lurked  in  each  cornice,  round  each  architrave — 
And  every  sculptured  cherub  thereabout, 
That  from  his  marble  dwelling  peered  out, 
Seemed  earthly  in  the  shadow  of  his  niche — 
Achaian  statues  in  a  world  so  rich  ? 
Friezes  from  Tadmor  and  Persepolis1" — 
From  Balbec,  and  the  stilly,  clear  abyss 
Of  beautiful  Gomorrah !  O,  the  wave3 
Is  now  upon  thee — but  too  late  to  save  ! 


Sound  loves  to  revel  in  a  summer  night : 
Witness  the  murmur  of  the  grey  twilight 
That  stole  upon  the  ear,  in  Eyraco/ 
Of  many  a  wild  star-gazer  long  ago — 
That  stealeth  ever  on  the  ear  of  him 
Who,  musing,  gazeth  on  the  distance  dim, 
And  sees  the  darkness  coming  as  a  cloud — 
Is  not  its  form — its  voice — most  palpable  and  loud  ?' 


But  what  is  this  ? — it  cometh — and  it  brings 
A  music  with  it — 't  is  the  rush  of  wings — 

161  Y 


AL  AARAAF. 

A  pause — and  then  a  sweeping,  falling  strain, 
And  Nesace  is  in  her  halls  again. 
From  the  wild  energy  of  wanton  haste 

Her  cheeks  were  flushing,  and  her  lips  apart ; 
xVnd  zone  that  clung  around  her  gentle  waist 

Had  burst  beneath  the  heaving  of  her  heart. 
Within  the  centre  of  that  hall  to  breathe 
She  paused  and  panted,  Zanthe  !  all  beneath, 
The  fairy  light  that  kissed  her  golden  hair 
And  longed  to  rest,  yet  could  but  sparkle  there  ! 


Young  flowers  were  whispering  in  melody  K 
To  happy  flowers  that  night — and  tree  to  tree ; 
Fountains  were  gushing  music  as  they  fell 
In  many  a  star-lit  grove,  or  moon-lit  dell ; 
Yet  silence  came  upon  material  things — 
Fair  flowers,  bright  waterfalls  and  angel  wings- 
And  sound  alone  that  from  the  spirit  sprang 
Bore  burthen  to  the  charm  the  maiden  sang  : 


"  'Neath  blue-bell  or  streamer — 

Or  tufted  wild  spray 
That  keeps,  from  the  dreamer, 

162 


AL  AARAAF. 

The  moonbeam  awayy — 
Bright  beings  !  that  ponder, 

With  half  closing  eyes, 
On  the  stars,  which  your  wonder 

Hath  drawn  from  the  skies, 
Till  they  glance  thro'  the  shade,  and 
Come  down  to  your  brow 

Like eyes  of  the  maiden 

Who  calls  on  you  now — 
Arise  !  from  your  dreaming 

In  violet  bowers, 
To  duty  beseeming 

These  star-litten  hours — 
And  shake  from  your  tresses 

Encumbered  with  dew 
The  breath  of  those  kisses 
That  cumber  them  too — 
(O  !  how,  without  you,  Love  ! 

Could  angels  be  blest  ?) 
Those  kisses  of  true  love 
That  lulled  ye  to  rest ! 
Up  ! — shake  from  your  wing 

Each  hindering  thing : 
The  dew  of  the  night- 
It  would  weigh  down  your  flight 

163 


AL  AARAAF. 

And  true  love  caresses — 
O  !  leave  them  apart ! 

They  are  light  on  the  tresses, 
But  lead  on  the  heart. 


"  Ligeia  !  Ligeia  ! 

My  heautiful  one  !    • 
Whose  harshest  idea 

Will  to  melody  run. 
Oh  !  is  it  thy  will 

On  the  breezes  to  toss  ? 
Or,  capriciously  still, 

Like  the  lone  Albatross,2 
Incumbent  on  night 

(As  she  on  the  air) 
To  keep  watch  with  delight 

On  the  harmony  there  ? 


"  Ligeia !  wherever 
Thy  image  may  be, 

No  magic  shall  sever 
Thy  music  from  thce. 

Thou  hast  bound  many  eyes 

1G4 


AL  AARAAF. 

In  a  dreamy  sleep — 
But  the  strains  still  arise 

Which  thy  vigilance  keep— 
The  sound  of  the  rain 

Which  leaps  down  to  the  flower, 
And  dances  again 

In  the  rhythm  of  the  shower — 
The  murmur  that  springs aa 

From  the  growing  of  grass 
Are  the  music  of  things — 

But  are  modelled,  alas  ! — 
Away,  then,  my  dearest, 

Oh  !  hie  thee  away 
To  springs  that  lie  clearest 

Beneath  the  moon -ray — 
To  lone  lake  that  smiles, 

In  its  dream  of  deep  rest. 
At  the  many  star-isles 

That  enjewel  its  breast — 
Where  wild  flowers,  creeping, 

Have  mingled  their  shade, 
On  its  margin  is  sleeping 

Full  many  a  maid — 
Some  have  left  the  cool  glade,  and 
Have  slept  with  the  beebb — 


AL  AARAAF. 

Arouse  them,  my  maiden', 
On  moorland  and  lea — 


Go  !  breathe  on  their  slumber, 
All  softly  in  ear, 


AL  AARAAF. 

The  musical  number 

They  slumbered  to  hear — 
For  what  can  awaken 

An  angel  so  soon 
Whose  sleep  hath  been  taken 

Beneath  the  cold  moon, 
As  the  spell  which  no  slumber 

Of  witchery  may  test, 
The  rhythmical  number 

Which  lulled  him  to  rest?" 


Spirits  in  wing,  and  angels  to  the  view, 
A  thousand  seraphs  burst  th'  Empyrean  thro', 
Young  dreams  still  hovering  on  their  drowsy  flight- 
Seraphs  in  all  but  "  Knowledge,"  the  keen  light 
That  fell,  refracted,  thro'  thy  bounds,  afar, 
O  Death  !  from  eye  of  God  upon  that  star  : 
Sweet  was  that  error — sweeter  still  that  death — 
Sweet  was  that  error — e'en  with  us  the  breath 
Of  Science  dims  the  mirror  of  our  joy — 
To  them  'twere  the  Simoom,  and  would  destroy — 
For  what  (to  them)  availeth  it  to  know 
That  Truth  is  Falsehood — or  that  Bliss  is  Woe  ? 
Sweet  was  their  death — with  them  to  die  was  rife 

167 


AL  AARAAF. 

With  the  last  ecstasy  of  satiate  life — 

Beyond  that  death  no  immortality— 

But  sleep  that  pondereth  and  is  not  "  to  be  " — 

And  there — oh  !  may  my  weary  spirit  dwell — 

Apart  from  Heaven's  Eternity — and  yet  how  far  from  Hell ! cc 

What  guilty  spirit,  in  what  shrubbery  dim, 

Heard  not  the  stirring  summons  of  that  hymn  ? 

But  two :  they  fell :  for  Heaven  no  grace  imparts 

To  those  who  hear  not  for  their  beating  hearts. 

A  maiden -angel  and  her  seraph-lover — 

O !  where  (and  ye  may  seek  the  wide  skies  over) 

Was  Love,  the  blind,  near  sober  Duty  known  ? 

Unguided  Love  hath  fallen — 'mid  "  tears  of  perfect  nioan."dd 

He  was  a  goodly  spirit — he  who  fell : 
A  wanderer  by  mossy-mantled  well — 
A  gazer  on  the  lights  that  shine  above — 
A  dreamer  in  the  moonbeam  by  his  love : 
What  wonder  ?  for  each  star  is  eye-like  there, 
And  looks  so  sweetly  down  on  Beauty's  hair — 
And  they  and  ev'ry  mossy  spring  were  holy 
To  his  love -haunted  heart  and  melancholy. 
The  night  had  found  (to  him  a  night  of  woe) 
Upon  a  mountain  crag,  young  Angelo — 
Beetling  it  bends  athwart  the  solemn  sky, 

168 


AL  AARAAF. 

And  scowls  on  starry  worlds  that  down  beneath  it  lie. 
Here  sat  he  with  his  love — his  dark  eye  bent 
With  eagle  gaze  along  the  firmament : 
Now  turned  it  upon  her — but  ever  then 
It  trembled  to  the  orb  of  EABTH  again. 

"  lanthe,  dearest,  see  !  how  dim  that  ray  ! 
How  lovely  'tis  to  look  so  far  away  ! 
She  seemed  not  thus  upon  that  autumn  eve 
I  left  her  gorgeous  halls — nor  mourned  to  leave. 
That  eve — that  eve — I  should  remember  well — 
The  sun-ray  dropped,  in  Lemnos,  with  a  spell 
On  th'  arabesque  carving  of  a  gilded  hall 
Wherein  I  sat,  and  on  the  draperied  wall — 
And  on  my  eye-lids — O  the  heavy  light ! 
How  drowsily  it  weighed  them  into  night ! 
On  flowers,  before,  and  mist,  and  love  they  ran 
With  Persian  Saadi  in  his  Gulistan : 
But  O  that  light ! — I  slumber'd — Death,  the  while, 
Stole  o'er  my  senses  in  that  lovely  isle, 
So  softly  that  no  single  silken  hair 
Awoke  that  slept — or  knew  that  he  was  there. 

"  The  last  spot  of  Earth's  orb  I  trod  upon 
Was  a  proud  temple  called  the  Parthenon ee — 

169  Z 


AL  AARAAF. 


More  beauty  clung  around  her  column'd  wall 
Than  e'en  thy  glowing  bosom  beats  withal ; ff 


And  when  old  Time  my  wing  did  disenthral, 
Thence  sprang  I — as  the  eagle  from  his  tower, 

170 


AL  AARAAF. 

And  years  I  left  behind  me  in  an  hour. 
What  time  upon  her  airy  bounds  I  hung 
One  half  the  garden  of  her  globe  was  flung, 
Unrolling  as  a  chart  unto  my  view — 
Tenantless  cities  of  the  desert  too  ! 
lanthe,  beauty  crowded  on  me  then, 
And  half  I  wished  to  be  again  of  men." 

'•  My  Angelo  !  and  why  of  them  to  be  ? 
A  brighter  dwelling-place  is  here  for  thee — 
And  greener  fields  than  in  yon  world  above, 
And  woman's  loveliness — and  passionate  love." 

•;  But,  list,  lanthe  !  when  the  air  so  soft 
Failed,  as  my  pennon'd  spirit  leapt  aloft,?gr 
Perhaps  my  brain  grew  dizzy — but  the  world 
I  left  so  late  was  into  chaos  hurled — 
Sprang  from  her  station,  on  the  winds  apart, 
And  rolled,  a  flame,  the  fiery  heaven  athwart. 
Methought,  my  sweet  one,  then  I  ceased  to  soar, 
And  fell — not  swiftly  as  I  rose  before, 
But  with  a  downward,  tremulous  motion  thro' 
Light,  brazen  rays,  this  golden  star  unto  ! 
Nor  long  the  measure  of  my  falling  hours, 
For  nearest  of  all  stars  was  thine  to  ours — 

171 


AL  AARAAF. 

Dread  star !  that  came,  amid  a  night  of  mirth, 
A  red  Da3dalion  on  the  timid  Earth. 

"  We  came — and  to  thy  Earth — but  not  to  us 
Be  given  our  lady's  bidding  to  discuss  : 
We  came,  my  love ;  around,  above,  below, 
Gay  fire-fly  of  the  night  we  come  and  go, 
Nor  ask  a  reason  save  the  angel-nod 
She  grants  to  us,  as  granted  by  her  God — 
But,  Angelo,  than  thine  grey  Time  unfurled 
Never  his  fairy  wing  o'er  fairier  world  ! 
Dim  was  its  little  disk,  and  angel  eyes 
Alone  could  see  the  phantom  in  the  skies, 
When  first  Al  Aaraaf  knew  her  course  to  be 
Headlong  thitherward  o'er  the  starry  sea — 
But  when  its  glory  swelled  upon  the  sky, 
As  glowing  Beauty's  bust  beneath  man's  eye, 
We  paused  before  the  heritage  of  men, 
And  thy  star  trembled — as  doth  Beauty  then  ! " 

Thus,  in  discourse,  the  lovers  whiled  away 
The  night  that  waned  and  waned  and  brought  no  day. 
They  fell :  for  Heaven  to  them  no  hope  imparts 
Who  hear  not  for  the  beating  of  their  hearts. 


172 


SONNET— TO  SCIENCE. 


CIENCE  !  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art ! 
Who  alterest  all  things  with  thy  peering  eyes. 
Why  preyest  thou  thus  upon  the  poet's  heart, 

Vulture,  whose  wings  are  dull  realities  ? 
How  should  he  love  thee  ?  or  how  deem  thee  wise, 

Who  wouldst  not  leave  him  in  his  wandering 
To  seek  for  treasure  in  the  jewelled  skies, 

Albeit  he  soared  with  an  undaunted  wing  ? 
Hast  thou  not  dragged  Diana  from  her  car  ? 
And  driven  the  Hamadryad  from  the  wood 
To  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  star  ? 

Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from  me 
The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind  tree  ? 


173 


TO   THE   EIVEB 


FAIR  river  !  in  thy  bright,  clear  flow 
Of  crystal,  wandering  water, 

in 


TO  THE  KIVER 


Thou  art  an  emblem  of  the  glow 

Of  beauty — the  unhidden  heart — 
The  playful  maziness  of  art 
In  old  Alberto's  daughter  ; 

But  when  within  thy  wave  she  looks — 

AVhich  glistens  then,  and  trembles — 
Why,  then,  the  prettiest  of  brooks 

Her  worshipper  resembles ; 
For  in  his  heart,  as  in  thy  stream, 

Her  image  deeply  lies — 
His  heart  which  trembles  at  the  beam 

Of  her  soul-searching  eyes. 


TAMERLANE. 


KIND  solace  in  a  dying  hour  ! 

Such,  father,  is  not  (now)  my  theme — 
I  will  not  madly  deem  that  power 

Of  Earth  may  shrive  me  of  the  sin 
Unearthly  pride  hath  revelled  in — 

I  have  no  time  to  dote  or  dream  : 
You  call  it  hope — that  fire  of  fire  ! 
It  is  but  agony  of  desire  : 
If  I  can  hope — Oh  God  !  I  can — 

Its  fount  is  holier — more  divine — 
I  would  not  call  thee  fool,  old  man, 

But  such  is  not  a  gift  of  thine. 

176 


TAMERLANE. 

ii. 

Know  thou  the  secret  of  a  spirit 

Bowed  from  its  wild  pride  into  shame. 

O  yearning  heart !  I  did  inherit 

Thy  withering  portion  with  the  fame, 

The  searing  glory  which  hath  shone 

Amid  the  Jewels  of  my  throne, 

Halo  of  Hell  !  and  with  a  pain 

Xot  Hell  shall  make  me  fear  again — 

0  craving  heart,  for  the  lost  flowers 
And  sunshine  of  my  summer  hours  ! 
The  undying  voice  of  that  dead  time, 
With  its  interminable  chime, 
Kings,  in  the  spirit  of  a  spell, 
Upon  thy  emptiness — a  knell. 

in. 

1  have  not  always  been  as  now : 
The  fevered  diadem  on  my  brow 

I  claimed  and  won  usurpingly 

Hath  not  the  same  fierce  heirdom  given 
Rome  to  the  Caesar — this  to  me  ? 
The  heritage  of  a  kingly  mind, 

177  A  A 


TAMERLANE. 

And  a  proud  spirit  which  hath  striven 
Triumphantly  with  human  kind. 

IV. 

On  mountain  soil  I  first  drew  life  : 
The  mists  of  the  Taglay  have  shed 
Nightly  their  dews  upon  my  head, 
And,  I  believe,  the  winged  strife 
And  tumult  of  the  headlong  air 
Have  nestled  in  my  very  hair. 


v. 


So  late  from  Heaven — that  dew — it  fell 

('Mid.  dreams  of  an  unholy  night) 
Upon  me  with  the  touch  of  Hell, 

While  the  red  flashing  of  the  light 
From  clouds  that  hung,  like  banners,  o'er, 

Appeared  to  my  half-closing  eye 

The  pageantry  of  monarchy, 
And  the  deep  trumpet-thunder's  roar 

Came  hurriedly  upon  me,  telling 
Of  human  battle,  where  my  voice — 

178 


TAMEELANE. 

My  own  voice,  silly  child ! — was  swelling 

(O  !    how  my  spirit  would  rejoice, 
And  leap  within  me  at  the  cry) 
The  battle-cry  of  Victory  ! 


VI. 


The  rain  came  down  upon  my  head 
Unsheltered — and  the  heavy  wind 
Rendered  me  mad  and  deaf  and  blind. 

It  was  but  man,  I  thought,  who  shed 
Laurels  upon  me  :  and  the  rush — 

The  torrent  of  the  chilly  air 

Gurgled  within  my  ear  the  crush 

Of  empires — with  the  captive's  prayer — 

The  hum  of  suitors — and  the  tone 

Of  flattery  round  a  sovereign's  throne. 

YII. 

My  passions,  from  that  hapless  hour, 

Usurped  a  tyranny  which  men 
Have  deemed,  since  I  have  reached  to  power, 
My  innate  nature — be  it  so  : 

But,  father,  there  lived  one  who,  then, 

179 


TAMERLANE. 

Then — in  my  boyhood — when  their  fire 
Burned  with  a  still  intenser  glow 

(For  passion  must,  with  youth,  expire), 
E'en  then  who  knew  this  iron  heart 
In  woman's  weakness  had  a  part. 

VIII. 

I  have  no  words — alas  ! — to  tell 
The  loveliness  of  loving  well ! 
Nor  would  I  now  attempt  to  trace 
The  more  than  beauty  of  a  face 
"Whose  lineaments,  upon  my  mind, 

Are shadows  on  th'  unstable  wind  ; 

Thus  I  remember  having  dwelt 

Some  page  of  early  lore  upon, 
With  loitering  eye,  till  I  have  felt 
The  letters — with  their  meaning — melt 

To  fantasies — with  none. 

IX. 

O,  she  was  worthy  of  all  love  ! 

Love  as  in  infancy  was  mine — 
'T  was  such  as  angel  minds  above 


TAMERLANE. 


Might  envy ;  her  young  heart  the  shrine 
On  which  my  every  hope  and  thought 
Were  incense — then  a  goodly  gift, 


181 


TAMERLANE. 

For  they  were  childish  and  upright — 

Pure as  her  young  example  taught : 

Why  did  I  leave  it,  and,  adrift, 
Trust  to  the  fire  within,  for  light  ? 

x. 

We  grew  in  age — and  love — together — 
Koaming  the  forest,  and  the  wild ; 

My  breast  her  shield  in  wintry  weather — 
And,  when  the  friendly  sunshine  smiled, 

And  she  would  mark  the  opening  skies, 

/  saw  no  Heaven—  but  in  her  eyes. 

XI. 

Young  Love's  first  lesson  is the  heart : 

For  'mid  that  sunshine,  and  those  smiles, 
When,  from  our  little  cares  apart, 

And  laughing  at  her  girlish  wiles, 
I'd  throw  me  on  her  throbbing  breast, 

And  pour  my  spirit  out  in  tears — 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  the  rest  — 

No  need  to  quiet  any  fears 
Of  her — who  asked  no  reason  why, 
But  turned  on  me  her  quiet  eye  ! 

182 


TAMERLANE. 

XII. 

Yet  more  than  worthy  of  the  love 
My  spirit  struggled  with,  and  strove, 
When,  on  the  mountain  peak,  alone, 
Ambition  lent  it  a  new  tone — 
I  had  no  being — but  in  thee  : 

The  world,  and  all  it  did  contain 
In  the  earth — the  air — the  sea — 

Its  joy — its  little  lot  of  pain 
That  was  new  pleasure the  ideal, 

Dim,  vanities  of  dreams  by  night — 
And  dimmer  nothings  which  were  real — 

(Shadows — and  a  more  shadowy  light !) 
Parted  upon  their  misty  wings, 
And  so,  confusedly,  became 
Thine  image  and — a  name — a  name  ! 
Two  separate — yet  most  intimate  things. 

XIII. 

I  was  ambitious — have  you  known 

The  passion,  father  ?     You  have  not : 
A  cottager,  I  marked  a  throne 
Of  half  the  world  as  all  my  own, 


TAMERLANE. 

And  murmured  at  such  lowly  lot — 
But,  just  like  any  other  dream, 

Upon  the  vapour  of  the  dew 
My  own  had  past,  did  not  the  beam 

Of  beauty  which  did  while  it  thro' 
The  minute — the  hour — the  day — oppress 
My  mind  with  double  loveliness. 


XIV. 

We  walked  together  on  the  crown 

Of  a  high  mountain  which  looked  down 

Afar  from  its  proud  natural  towers 

Of  rock  and  forest,  on  the  hills — 
The  dwindled  hills  !   begirt  with  bowers 

And  shouting  with  a  thousand  rills. 

xv. 

I  spoke  to  her  of  power  and  pride, 
But  mystically — in  such  guise 

That  she  might  deem  it  nought  beside 
The  moment's  converse  ;  in  her  eyes 

I  read,  perhaps  too  carelessly — 
A  mingled  feeling  with  my  own — 

184 


TAMERLANE. 


The  flush  on  her  bright  cheek  to  me 
Soomed  to  become  a  queenly  throne, 


Too  well  that  I  should  let  it  be 
Light  in  the  wilderness  alone. 

18.5 


B  B 


TAMERLANE. 


I  wrapped  myself  in  grandeur  then, 

And  donned  a  visionary  crown 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Fantasy 
Had  thrown  her  mantle  over  me — 
But  that,  among  the  rabble — men, 
Lion  ambition  is  chained  down — 
And  crouches  to  a  keeper's  hand — 
Not  so  in  deserts  where  the  grand — 
The  wild — the  terrible  conspire 
With  their  own  breath  to  fan  his  fire. 

XVII. 

Look  round  thee  now  on  Samarcand ! — 
Is  she  not  queen  of  Earth  ?  her  pride 
Above  all  cities  ?  in  her  hand 

Their  destinies  ?  in  all  beside 
Of  glory  which  the  world  hath  known 
Stands  she  not  nobly  and  alone  ? 
Falling — her  veriest  stepping-stone 
Shall  form  the  pedestal  of  a  throne — 
And  who  her  sovereign  ?     Timour — he 
Whom  the  astonished  people  saw 

IM 


TAMERLANE. 

Striding  o'er  empires  haughtily 
A  diademed  outlaw  ! 

xvin. 

O  human  love  !  thou  spirit  given, 
On  Earth,  of  all  we  hope  in  Heaven  ! 
AMiich  falPst  into  the  soul  like  rain 
Upon  the  Siroc-withered  plain, 
And,  failing  in  thy  power  to  bless, 
But  leav'st  the  heart  a  wilderness  ! 
Idea  !  which  bindest  life  around 
With  music  of  so  strange  a  sound 
And  beauty  of  so  wild  a  birth — 
Farewell !  for  I  have  won  the  Earth. 

XIX. 

"\Vhen  Hope,  the  eagle  that  towered,  could  see 

Xo  cliff  beyond  him  in  the  sky, 
His  pinions  were  bent  droopingly — 

And  homeward  turned  his  softened  eye. 
?Twas  sunset :  when  the  sun  will  part 
There  comes  a  sullenness  of  heart 
To  him  who  still  would  look  upon 

187 


TAMERLANE. 

The  glory  of  the  summer  sun. 

That  soul  will  hate  the  ev'ning  mist 

So  often  lovely,  and  will  list 

To  the  sound  of  the  coming  darkness  (known 

To  those  whose  spirits  hearken)  as  one 

Who,  in  a  dream  of  night,  would  fly, 

But  cannot,  from  a  danger  nigh. 

xx. 

What  tho'  the  moon — the  white  moon 
Shed  all  the  splendour  of  her  noon, 
Her  smile  is  chilly — and  her  beam, 
In  that  time  of  dreariness,  will  seem 
(So  like  you  gather  in  your  hreath) 
A  portrait  taken  after  death. 
And  hoyhood  is  a  summer  sun 
Whose  waning  is  the  dreariest  one — 
For  all  we  live  to  know  is  known, 
And  all  we  seek  to  keep  hath  flown — 
Let  life,  then,  as  the  day-flower,  fall 
With  the  noon-day  beauty — which  is  all. 

XXI. 

I  reached  my  home — my  home  no  more — 
For  all  had  flown  who  made  it  so. 


TAMERLANE. 


I  passed  from  out  its  mossy  door, 
And,  tho'  my  tread  was  soft  and  low, 


TAMERLANE. 

A  voice  came  from  the  threshold  stone 
Of  one  whom  I  had  earlier  known — 
O,  I  defy  thee,  Hell,  to  show 
On  beds  of  fire  that  burn  below, 
An  humbler  heart — a  deeper  woe. 


XXII. 

Father,  I  firmly  do  believe — 

I  know — for  Death  who  comes  for  me 

From  regions  of  the  blest  afar, 
Where  there  is  nothing  to  deceive, 

Hath  left  his  iron  gate  ajar, 
And  rays  of  truth  you  cannot  see 

Are  flashing  thro'  Eternity 

I  do  believe  that  Eblis  hath 
A  snare  in  every  human  path — 
Else  how,  when  in  the  holy  grove 
I  wandered  of  the  idol,  Love, 
Who  daily  scents  his  snowy  wings 
With  incense  of  burnt  offerings 
From  the  most  unpolluted  things, 
Whose  pleasant  bowers-  are  yet  so  riven 
Above  with  trelliced  rays  from  Heaven 

190 


TAMERLANE. 

No  mote  may  shun — no  tiniest  fly — 
The  lightning  of  his  eagle  eye — 
How  was  it  that  Ambition  crept, 

Unseen,  amid  the  revels  there, 
Till  growing  bold,  he  laughed  and  leapt 

In  the  tangles  of  Love's  very  hair  ? 


TO 


THE  bowers  whereat,  in  dreams,  I  see 
The  wantonest  singing  birds, 

Are  lips — and  all  thy  melody 
Of  lip -begot  ten  words — 
192 


TO 


Thine  eyes,  in  Heaven  of  heart  enshrined, 

Then  desolately  fall, 
O  God !  on  my  funereal  mind 

Like  starlight  on  a  pall — 

Thy  heart — thy  heart ! — I  wake  and  sigh, 

And  sleep  to  dream  till  day 
Of  the  truth  that  gold  can  never  huy — 

Of  the  baubles  that  it  may. 


- 


193 


C  C 


A  DREAM. 


N  visions  of  the  dark  night 

I  have  dreamed  of  joy  departed  — 
But  a  waking  dream  of  life  and  light 
Hath  left  me  broken-hearted. 


Ah  !  what  is  not  a  dream  by  day 
To  him  whose  eyes  are  cast 

On  things  around  him  with  a  ray 
Turned  back  upon  the  past  ? 


That  holy  dream  —  that  holy  dream, 
While  all  the  world  were  chiding, 

Hath  cheered  me  as  a  lovely  beam 
A  lonely  spirit  guiding. 

What  though  that  light,  thro'  storm  and  night, 

So  trembled  from  afar  — 
What  could  there  be  more  purely  bright 

In  Truth's  day-star  ? 


194 


ROMANCE. 


OMANCE,  who  loves  to  nod  and  sing, 
With  drowsy  head  and  folded  wing, 
Among  the  green  leaves  as  they  shake 
Far  down  within  some  shadowy  lake, 
To  me  a  painted  paroquet 
Hath  been — a  most  familiar  bird — 
Taught  me  my  alphabet  to  say — 
To  lisp  my  very  earliest  word 
While  in  the  wild  wood  I  did  lie, 
A  child — with  a  most  knowing  eye. 


Of  late,  eternal  Condor  years 
So  shake  the  very  heaven  on  high 
With  tumult  as  they  thunder  by, 
I  have  no  time  for  idle  cares 
Through  gazing  on  the  unquiet  sky. 


ROMANCE. 

And  when  an  hour  with  calmer  wings 
Its  down  upon  my  spirit  flings — 
That  little  time  with  lyre  and  rhyme 
To  while  away — forbidden  things  ! 
My  heart  would  feel  to  be  a  crime 
Unless  it  trembled  with  the  strings. 


FAIRY-LAND. 


DIM  vales — and  shadowy  floods — 
And  cloudy-looking  woods, 
Whose  forms  we  can't  discover 
For  the  tears  that  drip  all  over — 
Huge  moons  there  wax  and  wane — 
Again — again — again — 
Every  moment  of  the  night — 
For  ever  changing  places — 
And  they  put  out  the  star-light 
With  the  breath  from  their  pale  faces. 
About  twelve  by  the  moon -dial 
One  more  filmy  than  the  rest 

197 


FAIRY-LAND. 

(A  kind  which,  upon  trial, 
They  have  found  to  be  the  best) 


Comes  down — still  down — and  down 
With  its  centre  on  the  crown 

198 


FAIRY-LAND. 

Of  a  mountain's  eminence. 

\\liile  its  wide  circumference 

In  easy  drapery  falls 

Over  hamlets,  over  halls, 

Wherever  they  may  be — 

O'er  the  strange  woods — o'er  the  sea — 

Over  spirits  on  the  wing — 

Over  every  drowsy  thing — 

And  buries  them  up  quite 

In  a  labyrinth  of  light — 

And  then,  how  deep  ! — O,  deep  ! 

Is  the  passion  of  their  sleep. 

In  the  morning  they  arise, 

And  their  moony  covering 

Is  soaring  in  the  skies, 

With  the  tempests  as  they  toss, 

Like almost  any  thing — 

Or  a  yellow  Albatross. 
They  use  that  moon  no  more 
For  the  same  end  as  before — 
Videlicet  a  tent — 
Which  I  think  extravagant : 
Its  atomies,  however, 
Into  a  shower  dissever, 
Of  which  those  butterflies, 


FAIRY-LAND. 

Of  Earth,  who  seek  the  skies, 
And  so  come  down  again, 
(Never-contented  things  !) 
Have  brought  a  specimen 
Upon  their  quivering  wings. 


THE      LAKE. 


TO 


TV  spring  of  youth  it  was  my  lot 
To  liiuint  ut'  the  wide-  world  a  spot 


201 


D  I) 


THE  LAKE. 

The  which  I  could  not  love  the  less — 
So  lovely  was  the  loneliness 
Of  a  wild  lake,  with  black  rock  hound. 
And  the  tall  pines  that  towered  around. 

But  when  the  Xight  had  tin-own  her  pall 
Upon  that  spot,  as  upon  all, 
And  the  mystic  wind* went  by 
Murmuring  in  melody — 
Then — ah  then  1  would  awake 
To  the  terror  of  the  lone  lake. 

Yet  that  terror  was  not  fright, 

But  a  tremulous  delight — 

A  feeling  not  the  jewelled  mine 

Could  teach  or  bribe  me  to  define — 

Xor  Love — although  the  Love  were  thine. 

Death  was  in  that  poisonous  wave, 

And  in  its  gulf  a  fitting  grave 

For  him  who  thence  could  solace  bring 

To  his  lone  imagining — 

AVhose  solitary  soul  could  make 

An  Eden  of  that  dim  lake. 


202 


SOXG. 


SAW  thee  on  thy  bridal  clay — 

When  a  burning  blush  came  o'er  thee. 

Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 
The  world  all  love  before  thee  : 

And  in  thine  eye  a  kindling  light 

(Whatever  it  might  be) 
\N  as  all  on  Earth  my  aching  sight 
Of  Loveliness  could  see. 


That  blush,  perhaps,  was  maiden  shame — 

As  such  it  well  may  pass — 
Though  its  glow  hath  raised  a  fiercer  ti;ime 

In  the  breast  of  him,  alas  ! 

Who  saw  thee  on  that  bridal  day, 

When  that  deep  blush  would  come  o'er  thee. 
Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 

The  world  all  love  before  thee. 


203 


TO  M.  L.   8- 


F  all  who  hail  thy  presence  as  the  morning — 
Of  all  to  whom  thine  ahsence  is  the  night — 
The  blotting  utterly  from  out  high  heaven 
The  sacred  sun — of  all  who,  weeping,  bless 

thee 

Hourly  for  hope — for  life — ah  !  above  all. 
For  the  resurrection  of  deep-buried  faith 
In  Truth — in  Virtue — in  Humanity — 
Of  all  who,  on  Despair's  unhallowed  bed 
Lying  down  to  die,  have  suddenly  arisen 
At  thy  soft-murmured  words,  "  Let  there  be  light  !v 
At  the  soft-murmured  words  that  were  fulfilled 
In  the  seraphic  glancing  of  thine  eyes — 
Of  all  who  owe  thee  most — whose  gratitude 
Nearest  resembles  worship — oh,  remember 
The  truest — the  most  fervently  devoted, 
And  think  that  these  weak  lines  arc  written  by  him — 
204 


TO   M.  L.  S- 


By  him  who.  as  he  pens  them,  thrills  to  think 
1 1  is  spirit  is  communing  with  an  angel's. 


TO  HELEN. 


ELEN,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary  way-worn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 


On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 

And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

205 


TO   HELEN. 

Lo,  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand  ! 

Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  holy-land  ! 


NOTES  TO  AL  AAP.AAF. 


NOTES. 


Note  »,  page  149.     Al  Aaraaf. 

A  star  was  discovered  by  Tycho  Brahe  which  appeared  suddenly  in  the 
heavens — attained,  in  a  few  days,  a  brilliancy  surpassing  that  of  Jupiter — 
then  as  suddenly  disappeared,  and  has  never  been  seen  since. 


b  P.  151.     On  the  fair  Capo  Deucato. 
On  Santa  Maura — olim  Deucadia. 


c  P.  151.     Of  her  -who  loved  a  mortal — and  so  died.} — Sappho. 


d  P.  152.     And  gemmy  flower,  of  Trebizond  misnamed. 

This  flower  is  much  noticed  by  Leuwenhoek  and  Tournefort.     The 
feeding  upon  its  blossom,  becomes  intoxicated. 


e  P.  153.     A  nd  Clytia  pondering  between  many  a  sun. 

Clytia — The  Chrysanthemum  Peruvianum,  or,  to  employ  a  better-known 
term,  the  turnsol — which  turns  continually  towards  the  sun,  covers  itself, 
like  Peru,  the  country  from  which  it  comes,  with  dewy  clouds  which  cool 
and  refresh  its  flowers  during  the  most  violent  heat  of  the  day. — B.  de  St. 
Pierre. 

209  E  E 


NOTES. 


f  P.  153.     And  that  aspiring  flower  that  sprang  on  Earth. 

There  is  cultivated  in  the  king's  garden  at  Paris,  a  species  of  serpentine 
aloes  without  prickles,  whose  large  and  beautiful  flower  exhales  a  strong 
odour  of  the  vanilla,  during  the  time  of  its  expansion,  which  is  very  short. 
It  does  not  blow  till  towards  the  month  of  July — you  then  perceive  it 
gradually  open  its  petals — expand  them — fade  and  die. — St.  Pierre. 


B  P.  153.     And  Valisnerian  lotus  thither  flown. 

There  is  found,  in  the  Khone,  a  beautiful  lily  of  the  Valisnerian  kind. 
Its  stem  will  stretch  to  the  length  of  three  or  four  feet — thus  preserving  its 
head  above  water  in  the  swellings  of  the  river. 


h  P.  153.     And  thy  most  lovely  purple  perfume,  Zante!} — The  Hyacinth. 


1  P.  154.     And  the  Nelumbo  bud  that  floats  for  ever; 
With  Indian  Cupid  down  the,  holy  river. 

It  is  a  fiction  of  the  Indians,  that  Cupid  was  first  seen  floating  in  one 
of  these  down  the  river  Ganges— and  that  he  still  loves  the  cradle  of  his 
childhood. 


k  P.  154.     To  bear  the  Goddess'  song,  in  odours,  up  to  heaven. 

And  golden  vials  full  of  odours  which  are  the  prayers  of  the  saints. — Rev. 
St.  John. 


1  P.  155.     A  model  of  their  own. 

The  Humanitarians  held  t  that  God  was  to  be  understood  as  having  really 
a  human  form. —  Vide  Clarke's  Sermons,  vol.  i.  page  26,  fol.  edit. 

The  drift  of  Milton's  argument  leads  him  to  employ  language  which 
would  appear,  at  first  sight,  to  verge  upon  their  doctrine ;  but  it  will  be 
seen  immediately,  that  he  guards  himself  against  the  charge  of  having 
adopted  one  of  the  most  ignorant  errors  of  the  dark  ages  of  the  Church. — 
Dr.  Sumner's  Notes  on  Milton's  Christian  Doctrine. 

This  opinion,  in  spite  of  many  testimonies  to  the  contrary,  could  never 
have  been  very  general.  Andeus,  a  Syrian  of  Mesopotamia,  was  condemned 

210 


NOTES. 


for  the  opinion,  as  heretical.     He  lived  in  the  beginning  of  the  fourth 
century.    His  disciples  were  called  Anthropomorphites.—  Vide  Du  Pin. 
Among  Milton's  minor  poems  are  these  lines  : — 

"  Dicite  sacrorum  presides  nemorum  Dese,  &c. 
Quis  ille  primus  cujus  ex  imagine 
Natura  solers  finxit  humanum  genus? 
Eternus,  incorruptus,  asqusevus  polo, 
Unusque  et  universus  exemplar  Dei." 
And  afterwards, — 

"  Non  cui  profundum  Caacitas  lumen  dedit 
Dirc«eus  augur  vidit  hunc  alto  sinu/'  &c. 


m  P.  155.     By  winged  Fantasy. 

Seltsamen  Tochter  Jovis 
Seinem  Schosskinde 
Der  Phantasie.— Go'the. 


n  P.  156.     What  tho'  in  worlds  tchich  sightless  cycles  run. 
Sightless— too  small  to  be  seen.—Legge. 


0  P.  156.     Apart— like  fire-flies  in  Sicilian  night. 

I  have  often  noticed  a  peculiar  movement  of  the  fire-flies ; — they  will 
collect  in  a  body  and  fly  off,  from  a  common  centre,  into  innumerable  radii. 


P  P.  158.     Her  way — but  left  not  yet  her  Therascean  reign. 
TherasaBa,  or  Therasea,  the  island  mentioned  by  Seneca,  which,  in 
moment,  arose  from  the  sea  to  the  eyes  of  astonished  mariners. 


i  P.  160.     Of  molten  stars  their  pavement,  such  as  fall 
Thro'  the  ebon  air. 

Some  star  which,  from  the  ruin'd  roof 

Of  shaked  Olympus,  by  mischance,  did  fall. — Milton. 

211 


NOTES. 


r  P.  161.     Friezes  from  Tadmor  and  Persepolis. 

Voltaire,  in  speaking  of  Persepolis,  says,  "  Je  connois  bien  1' admiration 
qu'inspirent  ces  mines — mais  un  palais  e"rige"  au  pied  d'luie  chaine  des 
rochers  sterils — peut-il  £tre  un  chef-d'oeuvre  des  arts  ?  " 


8  P.  161.     Of  beautiful  Gomorrah  !    0,  the  wave.    • 

"Oh  !  the  wave"— Ula  Deguisi  is  the  Turkish  appellation;  but,  on  its 
own  shores,  it  is  called  Bahar  Loth,  or  Almotanah.  There  were  undoubt- 
edly more  than  two  cities  engulfed  in  the  "Dead  Sea."  In  the  valley  of 
Siddim  were  five — Adrah,  Zeboin,  Zoar,  Sodom  and  Gomorrah.  Stephen  of 
Byzantium  mentions  eight,  and  Strabo  thirteen  (engulfed) — but  the  last 
is  out  of  all  reason. 

It  is  said,  [Tacitus,  Strabo,  Josephus,  Daniel  of  St.  Saba,  Nau,  Maun- 
drell,  Troilo,  D'Arvieux]  that  after  an  excessive  drought,  the  vestiges  of 
columns,  walls,  &c.  are  seen  above  the  surface.  At  any  season,  such 
remains  may  be  discovered  by  looking  down  into  the  transparent  lake,  and 
at  such  distances  as  would  argue  the  existence  of  many  settlements  in  the 
space  now  usurped  by  the  "  Asphaltites." 


P.  161.     That  stole  upon  the  ear,  in  Eyraco.}— Eyracc—  Chaldsea. 


u  P.  161.     Is  not  its  form — its  voice — most  palpable  and  loud  f 

I  have  often  thought  I  could  distinctly  hear  the  sound  of  the  darkness  as 
it  stole  over  the  horizon. 


x  P.  162.     Young  flowers  were  whispering  in  melody. 
Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  charactery. — Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 


-v  P.  163.     The  moonbeam  away. 

In  Scripture  is  this  passage — "The  sun  shall  not  harm  thee  by  day,  nor 
the  moon  by  night."  It  is  perhaps  not  generally  known  that  the  moon,  in 
Egypt,  has  the  effect  of  producing  blindness  to  those  who  sleep  with  the 
face  exposed  to  its  rays,  to  which  circumstance  the  passage  evidently 
alludes. 

212 


NOTES. 

z  P.  164.     Like  the  lone  Albatross. 
The  Albatross  is  said  to  sleep  on  the  wing. 


aa  P.  165.     The  murmur  that  springs. 

I  met  with  this  idea  in  an  old  English  tale,  which  I  am  now  unable  to 
obtain,  and  quote  from  memory: — "The  verie  essence  and,  as  it  were, 
springe-heade  and  origine  of  all  musiche  is  the  verie  pleasaunte  sounde 
which  the  trees  of  the  forest  do  make  when  they  growe." 


hb  P.  165.     Have  slept  with  the  lee. 

The  wild  bee  will  not  sleep  in  the  shade  if  there  be  moonlight. 

The  rhyme  in  this  verse,  as  in  one  about  sixty  lines  before,  has  an 
appearance  of  affectation.  It  is,  however,  imitated  from  Sir  W.  Scott,  or 
rather  from  Claud  Halcro — in  whose  mouth  I  admired  its  effect : 

0  !  were  there  an  island, 

Tho'  ever  so  wild, 
Where  woman  might  smile,  and 

No  man  be  beguiled,  &c. 


c«  P.  168.     Apart  from  Heaven 's  Eternity — and  yet  how  far  from  Hell  / 
With  the  Arabians  there  is  a  medium  between  Heaven  and  Hell,  where 
men  suffer  no  punishment,  but  yet  do  not  attain  that  tranquil  and  even 
happiness  which  they  suppose  to  be  characteristic  of  heavenly  enjoyment. 

Un  no  rompido  sueno — 

Un  dia  puro — allegre — libre 

Quiera — 

Libre  de  amor — de  zelo — 

De  odio — de  esperanza — de  rezelo. — Luis  Ponce  de  Leon. 

Sorrow  is  not  excluded  from  "  Al  Aaraaf,"  but  it  is  that  sorrow  which  the 
living  love  to  cherish  for  the  dead,  and  which,  in  some  minds,  resembles 
the  delirium  of  opium.  The  passionate  excitement  of  Love  and  the 
buoyancy  of  spirit  attendant  upon  intoxication  are  its  less  holy  pleasures— 
the  price  of  which,  to  those  souls  who  make  choice  of  "  Al  Aaraaf"  as  their 
residence  after  life,  is  final  death  and  annihilation. 

213 


NOTES. 

dd  P.  168.     Unguided  Love  hath  fallen— 'mid  "tears  of  perfect  moan.' 

There  be  tears  of  perfect  moan 
Wept  for  thee  in  Helicon. — Milton. 


ee  P.  169.     Was  a  proud  temple  called  the  Parthenon. 
It  was  entire  in  1687 — the  most  elevated  spot  in  Athens. 


ff  P.  170.     Than  e'en  thy  glowing  bosom  beats  withal. 

Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  airy  brows 

Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  Queen  of  Love. — Marlowe. 


P.  171.     Failed,  as  my  pennoned  spirit  leapt  aloft. 
Pennon — for  pinion. — Milton. 


THE 


POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 


THE 


POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 


N  speaking  of  the  Poetic  Principle,  I  have  no  design  to  be 
either  thorough  or  profound.     While  discussing,  very  much 
at  random,  the   essentiality  of  what   we   call  Poetry,  my 
principal  purpose  will  be  to  cite  for  consideration,  some  few 
of  those  minor  English  or  American  poems  which  best  suit 
my  own  taste,  or  which,  upon  my  own  fancy,  have  left  the  most 
definite  impression.     By  "minor  poems"  I  mean,  of  course,  poems 
of  little  length.     And  here,  in  the  beginning,  permit  me  to  say  a 
few  words  in  regard  to  a  somewhat  peculiar  principle,  which,  whether 
rightfully  or  wrongfully,  has  always  had  its  influence  in   my  own  critical 
estimate  of  the  poem.     I  hold  that  a  long  poem  does  not  exist.     I  maintain 
that  the  phrase,  "  a  long  poem,"  is  simply  a  flat  contradiction  in  terms. 


I  need  scarcely  observe  that  a  poem  deserves  its  title  only  inasmuch  as 
it  excites,  by  elevating  the  soul.     The  value  of  the  poem  is  in  the  ratio 


217 


F  F 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE.  ' 

of  this  elevating  excitement.  But  all  excitements  are,  through  a  psychal 
necessity,  transient.  That  degree  of  excitement  which  would  entitle  a  poem 
to  be  so  called  at  all,  cannot  he  sustained  throughout  a  composition  of  any 
great  length.  After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour,  at  the  very  utmost,  it  flags — 
fails — a  revulsion  ensues — and  then  the  poem  is,  in  effect  and  in  fact,  no 
longer  such'. 

There  are,  no  doubt,  many  who  have  found  difficulty  in  reconciling  the 
critical  dictum  that  the  "  Paradise  Lost "  is  to  be  devoutly  admired  through- 
out, with  the  absolute  impossibility  of  maintaining  for  it,  during  perusal,  the 
amount  of  enthusiasm  which  that  critical  dictum  would  demand.  This  great 
work,  in  fact,  is  to  be  regarded  as  poetical,  only  when,  losing  sight  of  that 
vital  i  quisite  in  all  works  of  Art,  Unity,  we  view  it  merely  as  a  series  of 
minor  poems.  If,  to  preserve  its  Unity — its  totality  of  effect  or  impression 
— we  read  it  (as  would  be  necessary)  at  a  single  sitting,  the  result  is  but  a 
constant  alternation  of  excitement  and  depression.  After  a  passage  of  what 
we  feel  to  be  true  poetry,  there  follows,  inevitably,  a  passage  of  platitude 
which  no  critical  pre-judgment  can  force  us  to  admire ;  but  if,  upon  com- 
pleting the  work,  we  read  it  again,  omitting  the  first  book — that  is  to  say, 
commencing  with  the  second — we  shall  be  surprised  at  now  finding  that 
admirable  which  we  before  condemned — that  damnable  which  we  had 
previously  so  much  admired.  It  follows  from  all  this  that  the  ultimate, 
aggregate,  or  absolute  effect  of  even  the  best  epic  under  the  sun,  is  a  nullity : 
— and  this  is  precisely  the  fact. 

218 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

In  regard  to  the  Iliad,  we  have,  if  not  positive  proof,  at  least  very  good 
reason,  for  believing  it  intended  as  a  series  of  lyrics ;  but,  granting  the  epic 
intention,  I  can  say  only  that  the  work  is  based  in  an  imperfect  sense  of  Art. 
The  modern  epic  is  of  the  supposititious  ancient  model,  but  an  inconsiderate 
and  blindfold  imitation.  But  the  day  of  these  artistic  anomalies  is  over.  If, 
at  any  time,  any  very  long  poem  were  popular  in  reality — which  I  doubt — 
it  is  at  least  clear  that  no  very  long  poem  will  ever  be  popular  again. 

That  the  extent  of  a  poetical  work  is,  cceteris  paribus,  the  measure  of  its 
merit,  seems  undoubtedly,  when  we  thus  state  it,  a  proposition  sufficiently 
absurd — yet  we  are  indebted  for  it  to  the  Quarterly  Reviews.  Surely  there 
can  be  nothing  in  mere  size,  abstractly  considered — there  can  be  nothing  in 
mere  bulky  so  far  as  a  volume  is  concerned,  which  has  so  continuously  elicited 
admiration  from  these  saturnine  pamphlets  !  A  mountain,  to  be  sure,  by  the 
mere  sentiment  of  physical  magnitude  which  it  conveys,  does  impress  us  with 
a  sense  of  the  sublime — but  no  man  is  impressed  after  this  fashion  by  the 
material  grandeur  of  even  "  The  Colunibiad."  Even  the  Quarterlies  have 
not  instructed  us  to  be  so  impressed  by  it.  As  yet,  they  have  not  insisted 
on  our  estimating  Lamartine  by  the  cubic  foot,  or  PoUok  by  the  pound — 
but  what  else  are  we  to  infer  from  their  continual  prating  about  "  sustained 
effort  ?  "  If,  by  "  sustained  effort,"  any  little  gentleman  has  accomplished 
an  epic,  let  us  frankly  commend  him  for  the  effort — if  this  indeed  be  a  thing 
commendable — but  let  us  forbear  praising  the  epic  on  the  effort's  account. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  common  sense,  in  the  time  to  come,  will  prefer  deciding 

219 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

upon  a  work  of  Art,  rather  by  the  impression  it  makes — by  the  effect  it  pro- 
duces— than  by  the  time  it  took  to  impress  the  effect,  or  by  the  amount  of 
"  sustained  effort "  which  had  been  found  necessary  in  effecting  the  impression. 
The  fact  is,  that  perseverance  is  one  thing  and  genius  quite  another — nor  can 
all  the  Quarterlies  in  Christendom  confound  them.  By  and  by,  this  pro- 
position, with  many  which  I  have  been  just  urging,  will  be  received  as 
self-evident.  In  the  meantime,  by  being  generally  condemned  as  falsities, 
they  will  not  be  essentially  damaged  as  truths. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  clear  that  a  poem  may  be  improperly  brief; 
Undue  brevity  degenerates  into  mere  epigrammatism.  A  very  short  poem, 
while  now  and  then  producing  a  brilliant  or  vivid,  never  produces  a  profound 
or  enduring  effect.  There  must  be  the  steady  pressing  down  of  the  stamp 
upon  the  wax.  De  Beranger  has  wrought  innumerable  things,  pungent  and 
spirit-stirring ;  but,  in  general,  they  have  been  too  imponderous  to  stamp 
themselves  deeply  into  the  public  attention  ;  and  thus,  as  so  many  feathers 
of  fancy,  have  been  blown  aloft  only  to  be  whistled  down  the  wind. 

A  remarkable  instance  of  the  effect  of  undue  brevity  in  depressing  a 
poem — in  keeping  it  out  of  the  popular  view — is  afforded  by  the  following- 
exquisite  little  Serenade : 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 

220 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me— who  knows  how  ? — 

To  thy  chamber- window,  sweet  ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 
The  champak  odours  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 

0,  beloved  as  thou  art  ! 

0,  lift  me  from  the  grass  ! 

I  die,  I  faint,  I  fail ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas  ! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast : 
Oh  !  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last ! 

Very  few,  perhaps,  are  familiar  with  these  lines — yet  no  less  a  poet  than 
Shelley  is  their  author.  Their  warm  yet  delicate  and  ethereal  imagination 
will  be  appreciated  by  all — but  by  none  so  thoroughly  as  by  him  who  has 
himself  arisen  from  sweet  dreams  of  one  beloved,  to  bathe  in  the  aromatic 
air  of  a  southern  midsummer  night. 

One  of  the  finest  poems  by  Willis — the  very  best,  in  my  opinion,  which 
lie  has  ever  written — has,  no  doubt,  through  this  same  defect  of  undue 

221 


THE   TOETIC   PKINCIPLE. 

brevity',  been  kept  back   from   its  proper  position,  not  less  in   the   critical 
than  in  the  popular  view. 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 

'T  was  near  the  twilight-tide — 
And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 

Was  walking  in  her  pride. 
Alone  walk'd  she  :  but,  viewlessly, 

Walk'd  spirits  at  her  side. 

• 

Peace  charm'd  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  Honour  charm'd  the  air  ; 
•    And  all  astir  look'd  kind  on  her, 
And  call'd  her  good  as  fair — 
For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 
She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 

From  lovers  warm  and  true — 
For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 

And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo — 
But  honour'd  well  are  charms  to  sell, 

If  priests  the  selling  do. 

.    Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair  — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale  ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail — 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walk'd  forlorn, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray ; 
For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
222 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

Her  woman's  heart  gave  way  ! — 
But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alway  ! 

In  this  composition  we  find  it  difficult  to  recognise  the  Willis  who 
has  written  so  many  mere  "verses  of  society."  The  lines  are  not  only 
richly  ideal,  but  full  of  energy  :  while  they  breathe  an  earnestness — 
an  evident  sincerity  of  sentiment — for  which  we  look  in  vain  throughout  all 
the  other  works  of  this  author. 

While  the  epic  mania — while  the  idea  that,  to  merit  in  poetry,  prolixity 
is  indispensable — has,  for  some  years  past,  been  gradually  dying  out  of  the 
public  mind,  by  mere  dint  of  its  own  absurdity — we  find  it  succeeded  by  a 
heresy  too  palpably  false  to  be  long  tolerated,  but  one  which,  in  the  brief 
period  it  has  already  endured,  may  be  said  to  have  accomplished  more  in  the 
corruption  of  our  Poetical  Literature  than  all  its  other  enemies  combined. 
I  allude  to  the  heresy  of  The  Didactic.  It  has  been  assumed,  tacitly  and 
avowedly,  directly  and  indirectly,  that  the  ultimate  object  of  all  Poetry  is 
Truth.  Every  poem,  it  is  said,  should  inculcate  a  moral ;  and  by  this  moral 
is  the  poetical  merit  of  the  work  to  be  adjudged.  We  Americans,  especially 
have  patronized  this  happy  idea ;  and  we  Bostonians,  very  especially,  have 
developed  it  in  full.  We  have  taken  it  into  our  heads  that  to  write  a 
poem  simply  for  the  poem's  sake,  and  to  acknowledge  such  to  have  been 
our  design,  would  be  to  confess  ourselves  radically  wanting  in  the  true  Poetic 
dignity  and  force  : — but  the  simple  fact  is,  that,  would  we  but  permit  our- 

223 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

selves  to  look  into  our  own  souls,  we  should  immediately  there  discover  that 
under  the  sun  there  neither  exists  nor  can  exist  any  work  more  thoroughly 
dignified,  more  supremely  noble,  than  this  very  poem — this  poem  per  se — 
this  poem  which  is  a  poem  and  nothing'  more — this  poem  written  solely  for 
the  poem's  sake. 

With  as  deep  a  reverence  for  the  True  as  ever  inspired  the  bosom  of  man, 
I  would,  nevertheless,  limit,  in  some  measure,  its  modes  of  inculcation.  I 
would  limit  to  enforce  them.  I  would  not  enfeeble  them  by  dissipation. 
The  demands  of  Truth  are  severe.  She  has  no  sympathy  with  the  myrtles. 
All  that  which  is  so  indispensable  in  Song,  is  precisely  all  that  with  which 
she  has  nothing  whatever  to  do.  It  is  but  making  her  a  flaunting  paradox, 
to  wreathe  her  in  gems  and  flowers.  In  enforcing  a  truth,  we  need  severity 
rather  than  efflorescence  of  language.  We  must  be  simple,  precise,  terse. 
We  must  be  cool,  calm,  unimpassioned.  In  a  word,  we  must  be  in  that 
mood  which,  as  nearly  as  possible,  is  the  exact  converse  of  the  poetical. 
He  must  be  blind  indeed  who  does  not  perceive  the  radical  and  chasmal 
differences  between  the  truthful  and  the  poetical  modes  of  inculcation.  He 
must  be  theory-mad  beyond  redemption  who,  in  spite  of  these  differences, 
shall  still  persist  in  attempting  to  reconcile  the  obstinate  oils  and  waters  of 
Poetry  and  Truth. 

Dividing  the  world  of  mind  into  its  three  most  immediately  obvious 
distinctions,  we  have  the  Pure  Intellect,  Taste,  and  the  Moral  Sense.  I 

224 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

place  Taste  in  the  middle,  because  it  is  just  this  position  which,  in  the  mind, 
it  occupies.  It  holds  intimate  relations  with  either  extreme ;  but  from  the 
Moral  Sense  is  separated  by  so  faint  a  difference  that  Aristotle  has  not 
hesitated  to  place  some  of  its  operations  among  the  virtues  themselves. 
Nevertheless,  we  find  the  offices  of  the  trio  marked  with  a  sufficient  dis- 
tinction. Just  as  the  Intellect 'concerns  itself  with  Truth,  so  Taste  informs 
us  of  the  Beautiful  while  the  Moral  Sense  is  regardful  of  Duty.  Of  this 
latter,  while  Conscience  teaches  the  obligation,  and  Reason  the  expediency, 
Taste  contents  herself  with  displaying  the  charms  : — waging  war  upon  Vice 
solely  on  the  ground  of  her  deformity — her  disproportion — her  animosity  to 
the  fitting,  to  the  appropriate,  to  the  harmonious — in  a  word,  to  Beauty. 

An  immortal  instinct,  deep  within  the  spirit  of  man,  is  thus,  plainly,  a 
sense  of  the  Beautiful.  This  it  is  which  administers  to  his  delight  in  the 
manifold  forms,  and  sounds,  and  odours,  and  sentiments  amid  which  he  exists. 
And  just  as  the  lily  is  repeated  in  the  lake,  or  the  eyes  of  Amaryllis  in  the 
mirror,  so  is  the  mere  oral  or  written  repetition  of  these  forms,  and  sounds, 
and  colours,  and  odours,  and  sentiments,  a  duplicate  source  of  delight.  But 
this  mere  repetition  is  not  poetry.  He  who  shall  simply  sing,  with  however 
glowing  enthusiasm,  or  with  however  vivid  a  truth  of  description,  of  the 
sights,  and  sounds,  and  odours,  and  colours,  and  sentiments,  which  greet  him 
in  common  with  all  mankind — he,  I  say,  has  yet  failed  to  prove  his  divine 
title.  There  is  still  a  something  in  the  distance  which  he  has  been  unable 
to  attain.  We  have  still  a  thirst  unquenchable,  to  allay  which  he  has  not 

225  G  G 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

shown  us  the  crystal  springs.  This  thirst  belongs  to  the  immortality  o 
Man.  It  is  at  once  a  consequence  and  an  indication  of  his  perennia 
existence.  It  is  the  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star.  It  is  no  iner< 
appreciation  of  the  Beauty  before  us — but  a  wild  effort  to  reach  the  Beaut; 
above.  Inspired  by  an  ecstatic  prescience  of  the  glories  beyond  the  grave 
we  struggle,  by  multiform  combinations  among  the  things  and  thoughts  o 
Time,  to  attain  a  portion  of  that  Loveliness  whose  very  elements,  perhaps 
appertain  to  eternity  alone.  And  thus  when  by  Poetry — or  when  by  Music 
the  most  entrancing  of  the  Poetic  moods — we  find  ourselves  melted  intc 
tears — we  weep  then — not  as  the  Abbate  Gravina  supposes — through  excess 
of  pleasure,  but  through  a  certain,  petulant,  impatient  sorrow  at  our  inability 
to  grasp  now,  wholly,  here  on  earth,  at  once  and  for  ever,  those  divine  and 
rapturous  joys,  of  which  through  the  poem,  or  through  the  music,  we  attain 
to  but  brief  and  indeterminate  glimpses. 

The  struggle  to  apprehend  the  supernal  Loveliness — this  struggle,  on  the 
part  of  souls  fittingly  constituted — has  given  to  the  world  all  that  which  il 
(the  world)  has  ever  been  enabled  at  once  to  understand  and  to  feel  as  poetic. 

The  Poetic  Sentiment,  of  course,  may  develop  itself  in  various  modes 
— in  Painting,  in  Sculpture,  in  Architecture,  in  the  Dance — very  especially 
in  Music — and  very  peculiarly,  and  with  a  wide  field,  in  the  composition  oi 
the  Landscape  Garden.  Our  present  theme,  however,  has  regard  only  to  its 
manifestation  in  words.  And  here  let  me  speak  briefly  on  the  topic  of  rhythm. 

226 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

Contenting  myself  with  the  certainty  that  Music,  in  its  various  modes  of 
metre,  rhythm,  and  rhyme,  is  of  so  vast  a  moment  in  Poetry  as  never  to 
be  wisely  rejected — is  so  vitally  important  an  adjunct,  that  he  is  simply  silly 
who  declines  its  assistance,  I  will  not  now  pause  to  maintain  its  absolute 
essentiality.  It  is  in  Music,  perhaps,  that  the  soul  most  nearly  attains  the 
great  end  for  which,  when  inspired  by  the  Poetic  Sentiment,  it  struggles — 
the  creation  of  supernal  Beauty.  It  may  be,  indeed,  that  here  this  sublime 
end  is,  now  and  then,  attained  in  fact.  AVe  are  often  made  to  feel,  with  a 
shivering  delight,  that  from  an  earthly  harp  are  stricken  notes  which  cannot 
have  been  unfamiliar  to  the  angels.  And  thus  there  can  be  little  doubt  that 
in  the  Union  of  Poetry  with  Music  in  its  popular  sense,  we  shall  find  the 
widest  field  for  the  Poetic  development.  The  old  Bards  and  Minnesingers 
had  advantages  which  we  do  not  possess — and  Thomas  Moore,  singing  his 
own  songs,  was,  in  the  most  legitimate-  manner,  perfecting  them  as  poems. 

To  recapitulate,  then : — I  would  define,  in  brief,  the  Poetry  of  words  as 
The  Rhythmical  Creation  of  Beauty.  Its  sole  arbiter  is  Taste.  With  the 
Intellect  or  with  the  Conscience,  it  has  only  collateral  relations.  Unless 
incidentally,  it  has  no  concern  whatever  either  with  Duty  or  with  Truth. 

A.  few  words,  however,  in  explanation.  That  pleasure  which  is  at  once 
the  most  pure,  the  most  elevating,  and  the  most  intense,  is  derived,  I 
maintain,  from  the  contemplation  of  the  Beautiful.  In  the  contemplation 
of  Beauty  we  alone  find  it  possible  to  attain  that  pleasurable  elevation,  or 

227 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

excitement,  of  the  soul,  which  we  recognise  as  the  Poetic  Sentiment, 
and  which  is  so  easily  distinguished  from  Truth,  which  is  the  satisfaction 
of  the  Reason,  or  from  Passion,  which  is  the  excitement  of  the  heart.  I 
make  Beauty,  therefore — using  the  word  as  inclusive  of  the  sublime — I  make 
Beauty  the  province  of  the  poem,  simply  because  it  is  an  obvious  rule  of  Art, 
that  effects  should  be  made  to  spring  as  directly  as  possible  from  their 
causes  : — no  one  as  yet  having  been  weak  enough  to  deny  that  the  peculiar 
elevation  in  question  is  at  least  most  readily  attainable  in  the  poem.  It  by 
no  means  follows,  however,  that  the  incitements  of  Passion,  or  the  precepts 
of  Duty,  or  even  the  lessons  of  Truth,  may  not  be  introduced  into  a  poem, 
and  with  advantage;  for  they  may  subserve,  incidentally,  in  various  ways, 
the  general  purposes  of  the  work : — but  the  true  artist  will  always  contrive 
to  tone  them  down  in  proper  subjection  to  that  Beauty  which  is  the  atmo- 
sphere and  the  real  essence  of  the  poem. 

i 

I  cannot  better  introduce  the  few  poems  which  I  shall  present  for  your 
consideration,  than  by  the  citation  of  the  Proem  to  Mr.  Longfellow's  "  Waif." 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 

Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 
As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 

From  an  Eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist ; 
228 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavour; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who  through  long  days  of  labour, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 
229 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


With  no  great  range  of  imagination,  these  lines  have  been  justly  admired 
for  their  delicacy  of  expression.  Some  of  the  images  are  very  effective. 
Nothing  can  be  better  than — 


— The  bards  sublime, 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Down  the  corridors  of  Time. 


The  idea  of  the  last  quartrain  is  also  very  effective.  The  poem,  on  the 
whole,  however,  is  chiefly  to  be  admired  for  the  graceful  insouciance  of  its 
metre,  so  well  in  accordance  with  the  character  of  the  sentiments,  and 
especially  for  the  ease  of  the  general  manner.  This  "  ease,"  or  naturalness, 
in  a  literary  style,  it  has  long  been  the  fashion  to  regard  as  ease  in  appearance 
alone — as  a  point  of  really  difficult  attainment.  But  not  so : — a  natural 
manner  is  difficult  only  to  him  who  should  never  meddle  with  it — to  the 
unnatural.  It  is  but  the  result  of  writing  with  the  understanding,  or  with  the 
instinct,  that  the  tone,  in  composition,  should  always  be  that  which  the  mass 

230 


THE  POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

of  mankind  would  adopt — and  must  perpetually  vary,  of  course,  with  the 
occasion.  The  author  who,  after  the  fashion  of  "  The  North  American 
Review,"  should  be,  upon  all  occasions,  merely  "  quiet,"  must  necessarily, 
upon  many  occasions,  he  simply  silly,  or  stupid ;  and  has  no  more  right  to 
he  considered  "  easy,"  or  "  natural,"  than  a  Cockney  exquisite,  or  than  the 
sleeping  Beauty  in  the  wax-works. 

Among  the  minor  poems  of  Bryant,  none  has  so  much  impressed  me  as  the 
one  which  he  entitles  "  June."     I  quote  only  a  portion  of  it : — 


There,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick,  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife-bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what,  if  cheerful  shouts,  at  noon, 

Come,  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon, 

"With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 
231 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

1  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow ; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  soften'd  hearts  should  bear 

The  thought  of  what  has  been, 
And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 

The  gladness  of  the  scene ; 
Whose  part  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 
The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 

Is — that  his  grave  is  green  ; 
And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 
To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 

The  rhythmical  flow,  here,  is  even  voluptuous — nothing  could  be  more 
melodious.  The  poem  has  always  affected  me  in  a  remarkable  manner.  The 
intense  melancholy  which  seems  to  well  up,  perforce,  to  the  surface  of  all  the 
poet's  cheerful  sayings  about  his  grave,  we  find  thrilling  us  to  the  soul — while 
there  is  the  truest  poetic  elevation  in  the  thrill.  The  impression  left  is  one  of 
a  pleasurable  sadness.  And  if,  in  the  remaining  compositions  which  I  shall 
introduce  to  you,  there  be  more  or  less  of  a  similar  tone  always  apparent,  let 
me  remind  you  that  (how  or  why  we  know  not)  this  certain  taint  of  sadness  is 
inseparably  connected  with  all  the  higher  manifestations  of  true  Beauty.  It 

is,  nevertheless, 

•2.;  2 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

The  taint  of  which  I  speak  is  clearly  perceptible  even  in  a  poem  so  full  of 
brilliancy  and  spirit  as  the  "  Health"  of  Edward  Coote  Pinkney : — 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon  ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'Tis  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  Music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burden'd  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours  ; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers  ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns, — 

The  idol  of  past  years  ! 

233  H  II 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain  ; 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill'd  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon — 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood, 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  Mr.  Pinkney  to  have  been  born  too  far  south. 
Had  he  been  a  New  Englander,  it  is  probable  that  he  would  have  been  ranked 
as  the  first  of  American  lyrists,  by  that  magnanimous  cabal  which  has  so  long 
controlled  the  destinies  of  American  Letters,  in  conducting  the  thing  called 
"  The  North  American  Review."  The  poem  just  cited  is  especially  beautiful ; 
but  the  poetic  elevation  which  it  induces,  we  must  refer  chiefly  to  our  sympathy 
in  the  poet's  enthusiasm.  We  pardon  his  hyperboles  for  the  evident  earnest- 
ness with  which  they  are  uttered. 

It  was  by  no  means  my  design,  however,  to  expatiate  upon  the  merits  of  what 
I  should  read  you.  These  will  necessarily  speak  for  themselves.  Boccalini, 

234 


THE  POETIC   PEINCIPLE. 

in  his  "  Advertisements  from  Parnassus,"  tells  us  that  Zoilus  once  presented 
Apollo  a  very  caustic  criticism  upon  a  very  admirable  book : — whereupon  the 
god  asked  him  for  the  beauties  of  the  work.  He  replied  that  he  only  busied 
himself  about  the  errors.  On  hearing  this,  Apollo,  handing  him  a  sack  of 
unwinnowed  wheat,  bade  him  pick  out  all  the  chaff  for  his  reward. 

Now  this  fable  answers  very  well  as  a  hit  at  the  critics — but  I  am  by  no 
means  sure  that  the  god  was  in  the  right.  I  am  by  no  means  certain  that  the 
true  limits  of  the  critical  duty  are  not  grossly  misunderstood.  Excellence,  in 
a  poem  especially,  may  be  considered  in  the  light  of  an  axiom,  which  need 
only  be  properly  put,  to  become  self-evident.  It  is  not  excellence  if  it  require 
to  be  demonstrated  as  such : — and  thus,  to  point  out  too  particularly  the  merits 
of  a  work  of  Art,  is  to  admit  that  they  are  not  merits  altogether. 

Among  the  "Melodies"  of  Thomas  Moore,  is  one  whose  distinguished 
character  as  a  poem  proper,  seems  to  have  been  singularly  left  out  of  view. 
I  allude  to  his  lines  beginning — "  Come,  rest  in  this  bosom."  The  intense 
energy  of  their  expression  is  not  surpassed  by  anything  in  Byron.  There  are 
two  of  the  lines  in  which  a  sentiment  is  conveyed  that  embodies  the  all  in  all 
of  the  divine  passion  of  Love — a  sentiment  which,  perhaps,  has  found  its 
echo  in  more,  and  in  more  passionate,  human  hearts  than  any  other  single 
sentiment  ever  embodied  in  words : 

Come,  rest  in  this  bosom,  my  own  stricken  deer, 

Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home  is  still  here  ; 
235 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

Here  still  is  the  smile,  that  no  cloud  caii  o'ercast, 
And  a  heart  and  a  hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last. 

Oil  1  what  was  love  made  for,  if  't  is  not  the  same 
Through  joy  and  through  torment,  through  glory  and  shame  ? 
I  know  not,  I  ask  not,  if  guilt's  in  that  heart, 
•     I  but  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou  art. 

Thou  hast  call'd  me  thy  Angel  in  moments  of  bliss, 
And  thy  Angel  1 11  be  'mid  the  horrors  of  this, — 
Through  the  furnace,  unshrinking,  thy  steps  to  pursue, 
And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee, — or  perish  there  too  ! 

It  has  been  the  fashion,  of  late  days,  to  deny  Moore  Imagination,  while 
granting  him  Fancy — a  distinction  originating  with  Coleridge — than  whom 
no  man  more  fully  comprehended  the  great  powers  of  Moore.  The  fact  is, 
that  the  fancy  of  this  poet  so  far  predominates  over  all  his  other  faculties,  and 
over  the  fancy  of  all  other  men,  as  to  have  induced,  very  naturally,  the  idea 
that  he  is  fanciful  only.  But  never  was  there  a  greater  mistake.  Xever  was 
a  grosser  wrong  done  the  fame  of  a  true  poet.  In  the  compass  of  the  English 
language  I  can  call  to  mind  no  poem  more  profoundly — more  weirdly  imagi- 
native, in  the  best  sense,  than  the  lines  commencing — "  I  would  I  were  by 
that  dim  lake" — which  are  the  composition  of  Thomas  Moore.  I  regret  that 
I  am  unable  to  remember  them. 

One  of  the  noblest — and,  speaking  of  Fancy,  one  of  the  most  singularly 
fanciful  of  modern  poets,  was  Thomas  Hood.  His  "  Fair  Ines"  had  always, 
for  me,  an  inexpressible  charm  : 

236 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

0  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 

She's  gone  into  the  West, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest : 
She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

0  turn  again,  fair  Ines, 
Before  the  fall  of  night, 

For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivalTd  bright  ; 
And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 
And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

I  dare  not  even  write  ! 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier, 
Who  rode  so  gaily  by  thy  side, 

And  whisper'd  thee  so  near  ! 
Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 
That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

1  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 
With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  waved  before ; 
And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore ; 
It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 

— If  it  had  been  no  more  ! 
237 


THE   POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

Alas,  alas,  fair  Ines  ! 

She  went  away  with  song, 
With  Music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng ; 
But  some  were  sad  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  Music's  wrong, 
In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  Farewell, 

To  her  you've  loved  so  long. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines, 

That  vessel  never  bore 
So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before, — 
Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  ! 
The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more  ! 


"  The  Haunted  House,"  by  the  same  author,  is  one  of  the  truest  poems 
ever  written — one  of  the  truest — one  of  the  most  unexceptionable — one  of  the 
most  thoroughly  artistic,  both  in  its  theme  and  in  its  execution.  It  is,  more- 
over, powerfully  ideal — imaginative.  I  regret  that  its  length  renders  it  un- 
suitable for  the  purposes  of  this  lecture.  In  place  of  it,  permit  me  to  offer 
the  universally  appreciated  "  Bridge  of  Sighs." 


One  more  Unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 

Gone  to  her  death  ! 
238 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care ; 

Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements ; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing ; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. — 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her : 
All  that  remains  of  her, 
Now,  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutiful ; 
Past  all  dishonour, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily ; 
Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses ; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 
239 


THE  POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

Who  was  her  father  ? 
Who  was  her  mother  ? 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 
Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun  ! 
Oh!  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly, 
Feelings  had  changed : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement, 

From  garret  to  basement, 

She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver ; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river  : 
240 


THE   POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurl'd — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 
Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran, — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it, — think  of  it, 
Dissolute  Man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 
Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decently, — kindly, — 
Smooth,  and  compose  them ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly  ! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 

241  I  I 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

Cold  inhumanity, 

Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest, — 

Cross  her  hands  humbly, 

As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behaviour, 

And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 

The  vigour  of  this  poem  is  no  less  remarkable  than  its  pathos.  The  versi- 
fication, although  carrying  the  fanciful  to  the  very  verge  of  the  fantastic,  is 
nevertheless  admirably  adapted  to  the  wild  insanity  which  is  the  thesis  of  the 
poem. 

Among  the  minor  poems  of  Lord  Byron,  is  one  which  has  never  received 
from  the  critics  the  praise  which  it  undoubtedly  deserves : — 

Though  the  day  of  my  destiny 's  over, 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined, 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find ; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted, 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 

Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling, 

The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine, 
I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine  ; 

242 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean, 
As  the  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me, 

If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 
It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  tliee. 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  shivered, 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  delivered 

To  pain — it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me  : 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn — 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me — 

'T  is  of  thee  that  I  think — not  of  them. 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me, 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake, 
Though  loved,  thoU  forborest  to  grieve  me, 

Though  slandered,  thou  never  couldst  shake, — 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me, 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly, 
Though  watchful,  't  was  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 

Yet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one — 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'T  was  folly  not  sooner  to  shun  : 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me, 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that  whatever  it  lost  me, 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 

From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  perished, 
Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall, 
243 


THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

It  hath,  taught  me  that  which  I  most  cherished 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all : 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 

Although  the  rhythm,  here,  is  one  of  the  most  difficult,  the  versification  could 
scarcely  be  improved.  No  nobler  tlieme  ever  engaged  the  pen  of  poet.  It  is 
the  soul- elevating  idea,  that  no  man  can  consider  himself  entitled  to  complain 
of  Fate  while,  in  his  ad\7ersity,  he  still  retains  the  unwavering  love  of 
woman. 

From  Alfred  Tennyson — although  in  perfect  sincerity  I  regard  him  as  the 
noblest  poet  that  ever  lived — I  have  left  myself  time  to  cite  only  a  very  brief 
specimen.  I  call  him,  and  think  him  the  noblest  of  poets — not  because  the 
impressions  he  produces  are,  at  all  times,  the  most  profound — not  because  the 
poetical  excitement  which  he  induces  is,  at  all  times,  the  most  intense — but 
because  it  is,  at  all  times,  the  most  ethereal — in  other  words,  the  most 
elevating  and  the  most  pure.  No  poet  is  so  little  of  the  earth,  earthy. 
What  I  am  about  to  read  is  from  his  last  long  poem,  "  The  Princess :  " 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

244 


- 
THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret  ; 
0  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Thus,  although  in  a  very  cursory  and  imperfect  manner,  I  have  endeavoured 
to  convey  to  you  my  conception  of  the  Poetic  Principle.  It  has  been  my 
purpose  to  suggest  that,  while  this  Principle  itself  is,  strictly  and  simply,  the 
Human  Aspiration  for  Supernal  Beauty,  the  manifestation  of  the  Principle  is 
always  found  in  an  elevating  excitement  of  the  Soul — quite  independent  of 
that  passion  which  is  the  intoxication  of  the  Heart — or  of  that  Truth  which 
is  the  satisfaction  of  the  Eeason.  For,  in  regard  to  Passion,  alas  !  its 
tendency  is  to  degrade,  rather  than  to  elevate  the  Soul.  Love,  on  the 
contrary — Love — the  true,  the  divine  Eros — the  Uranian,  as  distinguished 
from  the  Diona?an  Venus — is  unquestionably  the  purest  and  truest  of  all 
poetical  themes.  And  in  regard  to  Truth — if,  to  be  sure,  through  the  attain- 

245 


THE   POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

ment  of  a  truth,  we  are  led  to  perceive  a  harmony  where  none  was  apparent 
before,  we  experience,  at  once,  the  true  poetical  effect — but  this  effect  is 
referable  to  the  harmony  alone,  and  not  in  the  least  degree  to  the  truth 
which  merely  served  to  render  the  harmony  manifest. 

We  shall  reach,  however,  more  immediately  a  distinct  conception  of  what 
the  true  Poetry  is,  by  mere  reference  to  a  few  of  the  simple  elements  which 
induce  in  the  Poet  himself  the  true  poetical  effect.  He  recognises  the 
ambrosia  which  nourishes  his  soul,  in  the  bright  orbs  that  shine  in  Heaven 
— in  the  volutes  of  the  flower — in  the  clustering  of  low  shrubberies — in 
the  waving  of  the  grain-fields — in  the  slanting  of  tall,  Eastern  trees — in 
the  blue  distance  of  mountains — in  the  grouping  of  clouds — in  the  twinkling 
of  half-hidden  brooks — in  the  gleaming  of  silver  rivers — in  the  repose  of 
sequestered  lakes — in  the  star-mirroring  depths  of  lonely  wells.  He 
perceives  it  in  the  songs  of  birds — in  the  harp  of  ^olus — in  the  sighing 
of  the  night-wind — in  the  repining  voice  of  the  forest — in  the  surf  that 
complains  to  the  shore — in  the  fresh  breath  of  the  woods — in  the  scent  of 
the  violet — in  the  voluptuous  .perfume  of  the  hyacinth — in  the  suggestive 
odour  that  comes  to  him,  at  eventide,  from  far-distant,  undiscovered  islands, 
over  dim  oceans,  illimitable  and  unexplored.  He  owns  it  in  all  noble  thoughts 
— in  all  unworldly  motives — in  all  holy  impulses — in  all  chivalrous,  generous, 
and  self-sacrificing  deeds.  He  feels  it  in  the  beauty  of  woman — in  the  grace 
of  her  step — in  the  lustre  of  her  eye — in  the  melody  of  her  voice — in  her 
soft  laughter — in  her  sigh — in  the  harmony  of  the  rustling  of  her  robes. 

216 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 

He  deeply  feels  it  in  her  winning  endearments — in  her  burning  enthusiasms 
— in  her  gentle  charities — in  her  meek  and  devotional  endurances — but 
above  all — ah,  far  above  all — he  kneels  to  it — he  worships  it  in  the  faith, 
in  the  purity,  in  the  strength,  in  the  altogether  divine  majesty—  of  her  love. 

Let  me  conclude — by  the  recitation  of  yet  another  brief  poem — one  very 
different  in  character  from  any  that  I  have  before  quoted.  It  is  by  Motherwell, 
and  is  called  "  The  Song  of  the  Cavalier."  With  our  modern  and  altogether 
rational  ideas  of  the  absurdity  and  impiety  of  warfare,  we  are  not  precisely 
in  that  frame  of  mind  best  adapted  to  sympathise  with  the  sentiments,  and 
thus  to  appreciate  the  real  excellence  of  the  poem.  To  do  this  fully,  we 
must  identify  ourselves,  in  fancy,  with  the  soul  of  the  old  cavalier. 


Then  mounte  !  then  mounte,  brave  gallants,  all ! 

And  don  your  helmes  amaine  : 
Deathe's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honour,  call 

Us  to  the  field  again  e. 
No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eyes 

"When  the  sword-hilt 's  in  our  hand, — 
Heart-whole  we'll  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land  ; 
Let  piping  swaine,  and  craven  wight, 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye ; 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 

And  hero-like  to  die  ! 


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Al 


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